


And the Clock Keeps Ticking

by Nherizu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 49,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nherizu/pseuds/Nherizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter knows three things. One, Voldemort can still cause chaos even after his death. Two, Draco Malfoy is one of the last two missing survivors. Three, Harry’s creepy dreams every night are the only key to finding Malfoy. And yet . . . maybe Harry shouldn’t be so sure, for the truth about Malfoy is not what he thinks it is.</p><p><b>Featured Book:</b> <i>The Dream Oracle</i> by Inigo Imago</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).



> This story doesn’t start immediately with H/D romance because I needed to build everything up slowly, and that’s for the sake of the mystery, too. And then there is lots of UST as well. :D
> 
> When I first read this prompt, I instantly fell in love and couldn’t resist the temptation to write it! So yeah, thank you for the brilliant prompt, Vaysh, I hope this is what you’re looking for.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta readers and first readers (P, E, A, F and D) for their help in polishing this story to be more presentable. Also thank you so much for holding this fest and for your endless patience, Mods!

**PART 1**

  
Cover Design by Winter_June

**One**

Harry opened his eyes slowly. He tried to move his fingers against the duvet, clenching them into fists to control the shaking in his limbs. He reminded himself to breathe, the ache at the back of his head growing more noticeable. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed blindly over the sheets and duvet, knowing he must have tossed his glasses off carelessly on the bed before falling asleep like usual.

”Fuck.” He grimaced as even the slightest of movement caused his stomach to coil with nausea. Putting his glasses on, he waited until his vision stopped spinning before he shoved apart the curtains surrounding his bed. He quickly shielded his eyes from the blinding sun slipping inside from the wide, open window across his bedroom. “. . . Kreacher,” he whispered, not even bothering to turn when he heard the loud _pop_ beside him. “The window—don’t open the bloody _curtains_. I must have told you millions times already, haven’t I? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.”

“Kreacher is old, Master, but twenty three times are far from millions,” said Kreacher, and Harry could almost hear the smirk that accompanied his words. “Young wizards nowadays sleep until noon,” Kreacher continued muttering lowly under his breath. Harry clenched his jaw angrily.

“Whatever. Bring me that potion,” he hissed as another pain shot through his head. “ _Quick_.”

“Yes, Master,” said Kreacher before he Disapparated. When he came back, Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He quickly took the vial from Kreacher’s hand and downed the contents. He counted to thirty until relief washed over his head and down his spine. He sighed contently.

“Thanks.”

“Does Master prefer to have his lunch in bed?” asked Kreacher. His tiny, bloodshot eyes narrowed expectantly while he waited for Harry’s answer.

“No proper wizard would still be in bed at this hour, would he?” Harry said grudgingly, catching the corners of Kreacher’s lips curl up slightly. “Fine, I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes.”

Kreacher Disapparated without an answer, but Harry knew his lunch would be ready in exactly ten minutes. Standing up, he went to the bathroom to wash and brush his teeth. As he went through the routine, his mind wandered, now that the headache had left him. He was sure something different was there, in his dream today. Usually he woke up with only a headache and a vague feeling of nausea, but today he was shaking like a five-year-old watching a horror film. But the random patterns of waves and spirals and colourful lines were still bemusing. Harry wondered if he was actually remembering any of his dreams at all, or if the recollections were only the result of a disoriented mind.

The first time Harry started having those dreams was nearly half a year ago. He had dismissed it, thinking that he was only suffering the side effects of the stress he went through at the time. Considering how the case could affect the whole Wizarding population, it was only natural that Harry felt under pressure. Being an official Auror for only two months before facing that big a case would unsettle anyone . . . not to mention his own personal connections to it. Yet as time went on, he couldn’t shake his suspicion any longer. He still had the dreams, and judging from the increasing frequency from once every other week to almost every day, he knew that either he really was barmy, or the dreams had a meaning. Now if only he could make out what he was actually seeing in his sleep . . .

Running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to fix it, Harry stared back at his reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes were so visible that Harry was certain Hermione would fuss over him later. Perhaps it would be wise to tell her about the side effects of his dreams, or be honest with her that he couldn’t sleep without falling into those dreams lately. Then again, perhaps she would scold him instead for taking a very strong potion on a daily basis. And that reminded him—he had to go to Knockturn Alley soon to restock his supply. Hermione’s wrath was the least of his concern, when he was facing the unpleasant fact that he could barely control his body each time he woke up. It felt as if he had been apart from his body the whole night and forgotten how to use it.

Sighing, Harry shook his head. He walked out his bathroom door, snatching his Auror robes from on top of the sink on the way. He was going barmy indeed, thinking something as impossible as leaving his own body like that. But again, he was Harry Potter, and if something impossible _could_ happen, it was guaranteed he would be the one to experience it. Suppressing a groan, he pushed all troubling thoughts to the back of his mind and descended the stairs.

The aroma of coffee greeted him as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. Hovering over the small table, Harry buttoned up his robes while peeking at the headline of _Daily Prophet_ , beside which a full plate of roast chicken and buttered bread sat. Harry took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sinking feeling upon seeing the photograph. Hermione would drill him with the information later, so he wouldn’t be able to escape from it even if he tried. With that thought, he resigned himself, taking a seat and preparing to read the news. He just hoped he still could maintain his appetite while doing so.

**. .**

**. .**

“This and this,” said Ron as he unceremoniously dropped two scrolls of battered parchment onto Harry’s desk. “You know that bloke in Devon? He finally came to us this morning. I know you were dead tired from your stakeout last night, but you’re lucky you didn’t have the early shift. He was a nightmare!”

Harry sighed, rubbing his cheek with a hand. “I need strong coffee,” he said.

“No luck there, mate. Williamson drank the last of it.”

“Tea then. A cup of tea will be nice,” said Harry, already unrolling one of the scrolls. “Why does it look like someone has puked on this?” He scrunched up his nose at the revolting smell and the yellowish stains.

“Actually,” said Ron, “that Lorellei bloke puked on it after we fed him the Veritaserum. Apparently he’s allergic to it.”

“Remind me again why we can’t spell this parchment clean.” Harry rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time something nasty ruined their investigation files, depending on where they collected them. Sometimes it was slime, mud or even blood. But Robards insisted that no magical influence was allowed to touch the parchment, unless it was strictly necessary. Until now Harry thought the reason was a bit forced, but Hermione had agreed with Robards. She had said that finding someone’s magical signature in the case of fake reports would be much faster without other people’s magical signatures in the mix. And who was Harry to deny that logic?

Sighing, Harry continued to skim over the report, vaguely aware when Ron ordered a Trainee Auror, a quick-thinking girl who nevertheless wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose, to bring them tea. When Harry reached the last sentence on the parchment, he groaned. “This is not helping.”

“Well, he couldn’t exactly digest the Veritaserum, so of course he could still lie. What do you expect?”Ron snorted. Harry could hear Hermione’s voice echo in his head, reminding Ron that Veritaserum was not supposed to be digested, because the magical quality in it would go straight to their veins before it could reach the alimentary canal, or something along those lines. Ron seemed to have the same mental image, too, for he quickly made a face.

“Anyway.” Ron coughed. “I think Hermione wants to see you.”

“Oh,” said Harry, deflating a bit despite already expecting it. “Must be about the _Daily Prophet_.”

“They never get tired of bringing that one up, don’t they?”

“Sadly, no.”

Ron’s eyes softened a little. “But I think Hermione has other things to say.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding in defeat. “Yeah, I’ll meet her. She’s in her office?”

“The one and only.” Ron snorted. “I’m starting to think that she thinks of it as her home.”

Harry gave him a sympathetic look, fully aware that Ron felt neglected even after he and Hermione had gotten their own flat. But Harry was in too terrible of a mood to listen to Ron’s sulks, so he quickly rose and strode to the door. “Sorry, Ron, tell Rosemary I’m sorry for not waiting for the tea.”

He was already out of the door when he heard Ron mutter, “I thought her name was Jasmine?”

Shaking his head, Harry briskly made his way to the lift, and squeezed himself into the already crowded car. As soon as he reached Level One, he freed himself from the collection of busy officials, mentally rolling his eyes at how pretentious they all were. Perhaps working on Level One made them that way, and it reminded him of Percy. Silently he thanked Hermione for still being his beloved Hermione, not a stuck-up important Ministry worker like Umbridge. He shuddered at the thought.

Before he realised, he was already in front of the door that led to Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic office. Slipping inside, it only took him a split second before he spotted Hermione’s door in between the other doors, with expensive-looking and neatly organized work cubicles stretched before them. He knocked three times, but didn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“Harry, it’s good to see you.” Hermione beamed, looking up from the thick tome in her hands while Harry claimed a seat across her desk. But when Harry only shrugged half-heartedly in response, she frowned. “You look awful.”

“Aw, thanks.”

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean.” She closed the tome and entwined her fingers on top of the desk. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Yeah, I always sleep like the dead. And Kreacher keeps on punishing me for not waking up.” At Hermione’s disapproving look, Harry wanted to bite his tongue for saying that last bit. To Harry’s relief, though, she didn’t pursue the House Elf matter further.

“It’s the dreams, isn’t it? That’s why you’re always tired?” she asked. “Do you get them more frequently now?”

Sometimes Harry didn’t know whether he should be thankful or resentful for Hermione’s sharpness. “Every bloody night. I’ve tried taking Dreamless Sleep and your other suggestions to calm myself before sleeping, but they didn’t work.”

Hermione bit her lip, looking thoughtful. “Actually, Harry, there’s one more thing you haven’t tried.”

Harry groaned. “If you’re telling me to meditate or empty my mind, I can’t, Hermione. There’s a good reason why I suck at Occlumency.”

“And there’s a good reason why I’m your best friend.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m not suggesting you to meditate. I’m suggesting that you should do some _research_.”

“Er,” said Harry. “Doesn’t being my best friend tell you that I suck at researching, too?”

“Of course I know that. Honestly.” Hermione huffed impatiently. She swivelled on her chair, facing the bookshelf on the right. She took no time to haul a leather-bound book that looked familiar, but somehow, Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on where he had seen it before. “That’s why _I_ searched for this book,” she said, pushing it towards Harry across the desk. When Harry merely raised an eyebrow, Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Harry.”

“Fine,” he said with a scowl, accepting the book. It looked a bit old, and the leather was soft to the touch. Upon reading the title, however, he announced in disbelief, “You’re kidding me.”

Hermione shrugged. “I wish I were. But Harry, that’s the only thing we haven’t tried yet. Unless . . .”

“Unless?”

“Unless you think the dream has connections to our case,” said Hermione softly. Harry drummed his forefinger on his thigh, fighting the urge to grit his teeth as the memories of the dreams he had years ago came over him.

“No,” he said, “he’s dead, he can’t be inside me again.”

“He might be dead, but . . .”

“. . . his magic isn’t,” Harry finished for her. Hermione nodded, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. Harry sighed. “It’s different, Hermione. I know him, I know his magic. This is—” he paused, striving to find the right word, but in the end he just shrugged, “—different.”

Hermione looked worried, but she didn’t argue. “The book then.”

“ _The Dream Oracle_ , Hermione?” Harry teased, grateful for the chance to lighten the atmosphere. “And here I thought you hated Divination.”

“I don’t hate it. I just think it’s unreliable. And most Seers are—”

“—frauds.”

“Yes,” said Hermione.

“I don’t think I have a good opinion of prophecies either,” said Harry dryly. “But if there’s something we could learn from the last war, it’s that prophecies can be a big deal.”

“Even change the world,” Hermione agreed. “Look, Harry, I’m sceptical about the book’s pertinence, and I hate to say this, but the only books I haven’t read that talk about dreams are Divination books. The others are not helpful for your condition, so . . . for now we have no choice.” Hermione swallowed, seemingly in pain for even admitting that. “But I promise I’ll try to look it up again. There’s this new bookshop I haven’t—”

“Hermione,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Calm down, I never said I wouldn’t read it.”

Hermione took Harry’s hand. “We’ll sort it out.”

“Yeah.”

“And that brings us to another matter,” said Hermione, her expression turning grim. She rummaged inside her drawer and fished out some pieces of parchment, held together with a black, Muggle paperclip. “I was able to get this from the Unspeakables. I’m sure your Head Auror will inform you soon, but I think you would want to know first what this means, Harry.”

Nodding in resignation, Harry took it from her and shuffled the pages. He skimmed all the contents. “Two more ex-Death Eaters this time?”

“The _Prophet_ only knows about one, but the Unspeakables found another one this morning.”

“And they both died with their left arms burnt . . .”

“. . . just like the other ex-Death Eaters,” confirmed Hermione. Closing his eyes in defeat, Harry crumpled the edge of the parchment, while Hermione continued, “I think it’s nearly ended, Harry.”

“How many more?” asked Harry, refusing to open his eyes.

“Two. If the list we found half a year ago is right.”

Finally Harry opened his eyes, reading the last piece of parchment and sensing weariness in his bones as he threaded all the alphabets together into names.

“It’s Thorfinn Rowle. We have information that he’s currently in South America,” said Hermione. She stared at Harry with a pained expression, her forehead creased a little. “We can still maybe—do something. But as for—”

“Do something, Hermione?” Harry snapped, slamming the parchment down on the desk. “How? We couldn’t fucking do anything all this time, and they were Death Eaters. They knew what they’d get for following a madman. They got what was coming to them.”

“Harry,” said Hermione, her expression distorted into displeasure. “Tell me you don’t actually mean that.”

“Well, I do,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “I don’t care if Rowle’s dead. He was there that night, Hermione, he was there when Dumbledore died!”

“Harry,” she said again, sounding impatient. “I understand that he doesn’t deserve our help, but I’ve told you millions of times, if we can capture him, we can solve the mystery! Think about how useful it would be for future cases! And I thought everything about Dumbledore’s death’s been cleared—”

“I don’t care,” shouted Harry. “It doesn’t change the fact that he was still a Death Eater, not a spy, not an _innocent_. I don’t care about the mystery, it’ll end once they're all dead anyway!”

Hermione didn’t answer, only pinning him with that ‘look’ again, the one that was borderline between pity and knowing, the one she always wore these past few years whenever she thought Harry was being absurd. But Harry was beyond angry. He was furious, disappointed and frustrated, because he didn’t go that far three and a half years ago only to let this happen. He didn’t do all of that only to lose again to Voldemort just because of those people’s stupidity for having served him, and he—

“Draco Malfoy’s still missing,” said Hermione quietly, yet effectively cutting into Harry’s livid thoughts. “You know what that means. But we still have time, Harry.”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, looking away from her, shaking in rage. Eventually he let his shoulders sag, knowing that however he hated it, Hermione was right. She always was. “Fine,” he said at last, picking up the wrinkled parchment and the book. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” Hermione nodded, her lips thinned into a wan smile. But right before he headed out of her office, she called to him again. “You’ll be with us this weekend, won’t you?”

Glancing slightly over his shoulder, Harry smiled. “I’ll stay over at the weekend,” he said as he slipped outside.

**. .**

**. .**

Harry walked alone, everything dark around him. He squinted, trying to see if there was any light at all, until a strong wind stopped him in his tracks. He tried to call out—something, just so that the silence wouldn’t be so deafening, but his voice was whipped away by the wind. No matter how loudly he yelled, nothing came out past his mouth. And then he felt someone move. He whirled around to face whoever it was, a wand appearing in his hand.

 _Who are you?_ he asked. _Who are you and what am I doing here?_

The person’s silhouette was clear despite the darkness. It was a man, tall and lean, and he stretched out a hand to Harry. He wanted something. Harry was about to ask again even though he knew his voice wouldn’t come out, when colourful waves washed over him, so bright that Harry had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the person had gone, and the waves had softened into a beautiful, gentle cocoon around him.

It was like magic. Like magic—

Harry woke up with a start, his chest heaving. He was a trembling mess. He tried to squeeze his hands into fists, but it felt like his energy was slipping away from him. Closing his eyes again, he counted his breaths and tried to ignore the pain in his head. Slowly he sat up, groaning when the pain shot through his spine, and he clutched his stomach as the nausea rose within.

“Kreacher,” he croaked, not having the energy to even open the bed curtains. When Kreacher popped up outside the curtains, he dropped his head onto the pillow again, breathing harshly. “The potion. Please, I . . .”

“Kreacher has brought it here already,” said Kreacher. “Would Master like to be fed?”

The idea of having Kreacher feeding him the potion with wrinkled fingers and cupping his jaw was not appealing in the slightest, but he could only bury his face deeper into the pillow, his stomach twisting violently. “Yes . . .” he managed shakily. He heard the sound of Kreacher opening the curtains. Before the darkness at the periphery of his vision claimed him, he felt Kreacher’s hands turning his head, opening his lips as the bitter taste of potion touched his tongue.

When he opened his eyes again, Kreacher was still there, watching him with disinterested eyes. “How long did I . . .?” He sat up, running his fingers through his hair.

“Nearly three minutes,” said Kreacher. “Will Master be having breakfast in bed?”

“No, no, I . . .” Harry groped around the sheets to find his glasses. “It’s fine, the pain is gone. I’ll be downstairs in a minute.”

Kreacher didn’t wait for another instruction and Disapparated. Harry put on his glasses, sighing in relief as he leaned against the headboard. Kreacher had left the curtains open again. Without the headache, staring at the bright, baby blue sky was calming. Harry let his mind memorise the dream. Glancing towards his bedside table, he contemplated for a moment before reaching for _The Dream Oracle_.

He remembered more than the colourful waves this time. After spending two nights free from the dreams at Ron and Hermione’s flat, it seemed like the dream wanted him to pay for the missing time, and it almost made him black out. Well, actually, he did black out, but that was beside the point.

Flipping the pages, he searched for a chapter that could describe darkness, or a man, or a strong wind. Yet after counting his age, the day he dreamed and the number of words of his dream’s subjects, the result was not what Harry hoped.

At least getting squished by a baby troll didn’t seem like the right answer.

**. .**

**. .**

“Where do you think Malfoy is?”

Ron looked up at him after being kicked out from Robards’ office because of their poor performance that month. The guy from Devon had escaped, having only faked his allergy to Veritaserum by drinking a Weasley Wizards Wheezes product. Harry gritted his teeth all the while as Robards showered them with spittle, but otherwise congratulated himself on not saying anything in the office.

“The ferret? I don’t know.” Ron shrugged. “He’s the only one we haven’t been able to trace for the past half a year. Why? Do you think if we catch him, Robards’ll cut us some slack?” asked Ron with hopeful eyes.

“Pursuing ex-Death Eaters is Senior Aurors’ job, Ron.”

“And the Chosen One’s,” Ron said. “And I’m your partner. Think I can convince Robards to accompany you? It’s only _Malfoy_.”

“Maybe,” Harry said with a scowl. “But now Robards won’t even let me in for capturing Rowle, thanks to that Lauren bloke.”

“Lorellei Applebee,” corrected Ron. “And Christopher the jewellery thief we let escape because we thought the culprit was Anderson, his cousin. And Mrs Kettleson, who filed a complaint because she heard us badmouthing her cat.”

“Makes you wonder if we’re really suited to be Aurors, doesn’t it?” Harry slumped his shoulders.

“We’re still new, mate,” said Ron, patting Harry’s shoulder, though his own voice betrayed his lack of confidence. “I’m sure Robards’ll change his mind—nobody’s more perfect at capturing Death Eaters than you,” he added.

Harry smiled at him, but seeing how Neville had risen up to the first rank these past few months, Harry doubted his mood would improve any time soon. It wasn’t that he underestimated Neville, especially not after he killed Nagini. But still, Neville was more interested in Herbology—it wasn’t fair at all. Besides, Snape would roll in his grave if he knew Neville was such a capable Auror. Not that Snape would approve that Harry had become one.

“I’m meeting Hermione and Luna for lunch. You coming?” Harry asked, determined not to think about that again. At this, Ron’s face quickly turned sour.

“I’m not meeting Hermione,” he announced loudly. “And if you see her, tell her I’m not going home.”

Harry sighed. “Another row? Fine, whatever,” said Harry, already deciding he wouldn’t pass on the message. “Meet you later then.”

He ambled out of the busy area of Auror offices before Ron could open his mouth again.

When he arrived at the small restaurant in Muggle London, Luna was already there. The place was humble and simply decorated, but the number of patrons it had was quite large. Fortunately, on Monday the place wasn’t as crowded as usual. Harry walked through the narrow path between mahogany tables and chairs, waving slightly at Luna. She had chosen the table in the corner near a huge glass window today. When Harry mentioned it because he wasn’t comfortable eating while other people could stare at him from the pavement, Luna only smiled and said, “The Wrackspurts are afraid of the sun, I chose this table for you.”

Harry resisted a grimace. “I thought Wrackspurts live inside peoples’ heads?”

“They just fly into your ears. But the new Wrackspurts are more persistent.”

“The new Wrackspurts,” Harry echoed.

“They can make your brain even fuzzier,” said Luna. “They can make you forget your dreams, too.”

Harry paused at that, inwardly ashamed for doubting Luna for a moment. “I’ve remembered a lot more about my dream.”

“That’s nice, Harry. Did you see it in your dream?”

“It?” Harry repeated, certain Luna wasn’t talking about Wrackspurts. He was about to enquire further when Hermione arrived, hurriedly flopping onto the seat beside him.

“Hello, Harry, Luna,” she said. “I’m sorry, today was hectic, I thought I wouldn’t make it.”

“It’s fine.” Harry shrugged.

“We were just talking about the mutated Wrackspurts,” said Luna dreamily. As Hermione frowned at her, she added, “I think you’ve got one in your office. I’ll send you one of my necklaces if you want.”

Hermione only smiled awkwardly, while Luna turned to Harry.

“Do you want me to make one for you, too, Harry? Who knows, it might help ease the pain better than the potions.”

“Potions?” Hermione perked up, and Harry almost swore under his breath. “What does she mean by that?” She narrowed her eyes accusingly at Harry.

“Er,” said Harry. “Well, you know, the pain’s been bad lately, and I can’t stand it without—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about _that_?” Hermione looked affronted. “Harry, you don’t take anything illegal, do you?”

“Don’t accuse—“

“It’s not illegal,” said Luna calmly, “the shop owner in Knockturn Alley is a friend of my father’s acquaintance’s second cousin’s wife, and she said it’d be legal sooner or later, so it’s a soon-to-be-legal potion, or a not-quite-illegal-potion.”

“Not Ministry approved,” shrieked Hermione in alarm. Harry could only glare at Luna, who was looking as oblivious as ever. Hermione continued to fuss, “There might be side effects! Or worse, you could get addicted! What kind of potion—what kind of pain—oh _God_!”

“Who cares about getting addicted?” snapped Harry. “You don’t expect me to pass out from the pain every day, do you?”

“There must be other ways—if you just told me!”

“Yeah, you’d need a whole month to research first and in the mean time I might already die,” said Harry sarcastically. Hermione glared at him.

“I do know about priorities, Harry, I thought you’d know that.” She lifted her chin in defiance, and suddenly Harry felt a tiny bit of guilt creeping inside him. “Tell me then. Were you in pain at our flat last weekend, too?”

Harry sank lower into his seat, avoiding her eyes. “No, I didn’t dream at all at your place.”

“That’s because it’s in your bedroom, Harry,” said Luna casually, as though she hadn’t just told Hermione Harry’s secret. Harry was still puzzled by the ‘it’, but Hermione let out a scandalised gasp.

“Your room! The pain! I should have known,” she said loudly, eyes widened in excitement, seemingly forgetting how cross she was just thirty seconds ago. “Harry, we’ve got to go to your place!”

“Why? We haven’t even ordered anything,” Harry groaned. That light in Hermione eyes never meant anything good.

“Not right now, of course. But after work,” said Hermione with a look. She signed the waitress to come, then ordered to Harry, “Meet me in the Atrium.”

Harry merely blew his fringe away from his forehead.

**. .**

**. .**

Hermione swished her wand one last time, letting out a gentle, purple light which engulfed all the furniture in Harry’s bedroom. The light slipped inside even the tiniest space available—like under his bed or the cracks between drawers. Harry waited, resting his back on the wall, covering a yawn with his palm. As the light faded into soft pink before it disappeared entirely, Hermione’s frown lines grew deeper.

“I was so sure it was a curse placed in your bedroom,” she said desperately.

“You’ve checked for a curse for hours, Hermione. And we already did a full check of the entire house before,” Harry pointed out.

“I know, but we were eighteen, we didn’t know as many spells as we do now!”

Harry wanted to say that he only knew one more spell from Auror training, but he bit his tongue instead.

“This is the House of Black, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were curses we missed,” said Hermione again, expression thoughtful as she paced.

“Yeah, but we can continue searching tomorrow. It’s almost midnight, Hermione, shouldn’t you get some rest?” Harry tried to keep the weariness away from his voice, but upon Hermione’s glare, he knew he hadn’t succeeded.

“Fine.” She huffed. “But tell me what you got from _The Dream Oracle_ first.”

“Basically I’ll meet my doom by being squeezed by a baby troll,” said Harry, raising his eyebrows mockingly. “I’m sure Professor Trelawney would be delighted to hear that.”

“Oh, honestly. _Accio The Dream Oracle_.” The book flew into Hermione’s open hands in a second. “Did you count the subject’s words, your age and the date?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I did. Three times.”

“Did you add the waves' colours, too?”

Harry paused. “Er.”

“You didn’t, I knew it.” Hermione nodded, humming under her breath to annoy Harry. “Right, according to this book and your story, if I add the colours purple, red, yellow and orange, it means someone or something is waiting for you.”

Harry snorted a laugh. “How romantic. Are they waiting for me in a tower in some old castles?”

“Actually, yes. The book says it’s somewhere ancient and mighty.”

“Oh, perfect,” Harry said derisively. “I’m getting myself a sleeping beauty. Do I need to slay a dragon?”

Hermione sent him a withering look, slamming the book closed. “It still doesn’t explain the pain.”

“It won’t explain anything, Hermione, it’s the book Professor Trelawney used,” said Harry, his voice close to a whine. “Now I’m so tired and tomorrow Robards wants me to go on a boring stakeout again, because apparently adrenaline packed jobs are too good for me and Ron.”

“Oh Harry, you’re still a—”

“New Auror, I know,” said Harry jadedly. “The Chosen One, my arse.”

Hermione smiled. “Well, you did defeat Voldemort.”

Harry wasn’t sure if it was indeed true. Voldemort was going to take every follower he had with him to the grave, and after that, there was no guarantee he didn’t have other plans up his sleeve. Even dead, he was still the biggest threat, and Harry was only an incompetent Auror. Still, he shrugged at Hermione, feigning nonchalance.

When Hermione left, it didn’t take him too long to collapse in his bed.

**. .**

**. .**

_Who are you?_ Harry screamed, but nothing came out past his mouth, even though he could feel the vibration in his throat. The man was standing before him, his silhouette in darkness showing the perfect posture of someone having been born to nobility. Harry moved closer, a wand appearing in his hand. The man reached out at the same time.

 _No_ , Harry said, jerking a step backward. _No, you’ll blind me again with the lights!_

The man now walked towards him in long strides—somehow Harry could hear the _step, step, step_ from his shoes ringing steadily on the ground. The wind blew harder. Harry squinted, determined not to lose his sight this time. Then the lights came.

Lifting his forearm to shield his eyes, Harry struggled not to blink, let alone close his eyes. But it was too bright—he could feel his eyes water, and his eyelids twitching uncontrollably. _No,_ he shouted, _no, no, no!_ He pointed the wand upward and yelled at the top of his lungs, _Nox!_

The lights died.

The darkness had never been so blissful as it was then. Harry blinked his tears away, trembling violently. But the man was gone—nothing was there aside from the deep, endless darkness. Harry hiccupped, dropping to his knees as he rubbed his cheeks harshly. Then, shakily, he whispered, _Lumos_.

The man was still gone, the wind was dry and empty. Harry turned the glowing wand around him, attempting to inspect the place. He didn’t get to see much, however, for the sight of the wand in his hand made him drop it to the ground.

The clattering sounds echoed eerily in the dark.

**. .**

**. .**

“Fuck,” Harry hissed, sitting up instantly. He could feel his cheeks wet from tears, and his hair clammy on his forehead. But the familiar headache and nausea were absent. “ _Fuck_!” He grabbed his glasses, tore the bed curtains apart and jumped to his feet, shocked once he found out that it was still dark. For a moment he felt disoriented, worried if he was still in his dream, yet as he saw the gentle moonlight seeping in between his parted curtains, he sighed in relief.

He didn’t stay still for too long. Scrubbing his wet cheeks with the heel of his palm, Harry quickly strolled towards his dresser. The antique black, oak dresser was nothing really special aside from its carving of the Black family crest. It was one of the few things he kept because of Sirius, although the creaking sound it produced grated on his ears every time he wanted to open the drawers. But he kept it only to store valuable things—the ones he didn’t need to take out often, thus it wasn’t that annoying so far.

Taking his wand from the small, cheap wooden desk that looked mismatched with the mighty dresser beside it, Harry swished his wand and undid the wards. He slid open the middle drawer with a loud screech. As expected, the thing inside it made him gasp in wonder.

It was blanketed by shiny, blue satin, but the white glow was still faintly visible. Cautiously, Harry lifted it out of the drawer. He put it down on the floor, untying the satin and slowly unveiling the wand hidden inside it. The wisps of white tendrils reached out to him, making him jerk his hand away. With wide eyes he observed the tender light coming from the wand, and held his breath as Luna’s words resounded in his mind.

_Did you see it in your dream?_

The catalyst. Draco Malfoy’s wand. It was what had made Harry dream all this time.

Harry sprung to his feet, grabbing his own wand and swearing when he almost stumbled on the way out of his bedroom. He ran down the stairs, slamming the door open as soon as he arrived at the end of the first floor hallway. Magical torches lit up to show a big, dusty chamber covered in floral wallpaper. The room was rarely used, and Harry had dumped a lot of Hermione’s and Black family books there, except for the ones with dark magic. Hovering over the stacks of books, Harry muttered impatiently as he strived to remember the title of the book he needed.

“Argh. _Accio_ books about wands,” he said, giving up. Three books flew towards him, dangerously close to destroying the high piles of other books. Harry caught the first two safely, though the last one smacked him right in the face.

Peeking at the title of the book that had whacked him, Harry scowled. He had read _Where There's a Wand, There's a Way_ a long time ago in his fourth year, and was sure there wasn’t anything that would explain Draco bloody Malfoy’s wand. He tossed it aside, and ran his fingers over the golden embossed lettering on a black leather book. _Wands and Its Owners_ , it read. Harry quickly shuffled the pages, certain it would explain the connections between Malfoy’s wand and Harry’s ownership, but groaned once he realised the book consisted only of a huge list of witches, wizards and their wands in the sixteenth century. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and then moved on to the last book.

It was quite old—the cover was dark red, but its edges were uneven brown as though someone had tried to burn the book but changed their mind. The cover was blank, so Harry had to flip open the first page to see the title— _Mysteries of Wandlore through the Years._ Excited, Harry rapidly skimmed over the pages, careful so as not to tear the yellowing sheets. It had records about mysterious things that had been known to happen to witches, wizards and their ownership of wands throughout the centuries. Harry grinned, quickly sitting down the floor and leaning against the wall to read.

The book was too thick, though. An hour later Harry felt his eyelids droop. He sighed, scratching his jaw as he skimmed over a case where a witch in the seventeenth century found a huge stack of gold in a forest because her wand Apparated her there without warning. Harry was about to give up and try to find another way to find Malfoy as long as he didn’t have to read, when he caught what was on the next page.

> _A wand shared by two owners is rare but possible. In one instance, a wand can still remember its original owner’s magic, and therefore when said owner badly needs it to channel their magic, the wand will try to answer the call. When the original owner is not within reach, often the wand will feed from the new owner’s magic instead. This condition will not stop as long as the wand cannot answer to its original owner directly. Giving the wand back to its original owner is the wisest option, for many times the new owner suffers the severity of having their magic denuded completely and meets their demise._

Harry blinked, trying to discern what that meant. It seemed a bit . . . close to his situation.

So Harry was the new owner of Malfoy’s wand, and Malfoy was missing somewhere, presumably fleeing from the Ministry. Harry had started having the dreams half a year ago—which was about the same time Malfoy had gone missing. And if Malfoy needed to use a wand that badly now, if he was in danger, if Voldemort’s curse was . . . that explained why Harry felt weakened every morning. That explained the colourful waves that felt like magic, and why tonight, when he hadn’t given in to the waves, he hadn’t had the usual headache and nausea. That meant Malfoy was waiting for his wand somewhere—and Harry would die if he didn’t give it back to him.

Or . . . Malfoy would die if Voldemort got to him first before Harry could return the wand.

Throwing his head back so it thudded against the wall, Harry rubbed his hair with both hands. It just figured that this bad thing in his life would lead to Draco Malfoy. It was just how much fate _loved_ him. But now the problem was, if Malfoy was really waiting for his wand, where the hell was he? And how would Harry find him?

 _It means someone or something is waiting for you_ , Hermione’s voice resonated in his head, _the book says it’s somewhere ancient and mighty_.

Eyes wide, Harry straightened up. Somewhere ancient and mighty. Where would be more suitable to find Malfoy than in the ancient, mighty Malfoy Manor?

“Shit,” Harry said, scrambling to his feet. Of course, the Ministry had sealed the place, and Aurors had raided it many times since it all started. But Draco Malfoy was the Malfoy heir—he must have known a secret place which no one was aware of. Harry should have known.

He galloped back upstairs, screeching to a halt only to pick up the glowing wand on his bedroom floor. He covered it again with the satin, and cast several precautionary spells so it was safe for him to touch it. He snatched his robes and cloak, pocketing the wand while keeping his own ready under his sleeve. He practically jumped down the stairs to hurry through the front hall and out the main door. He Apparated before he could reconsider.

**. .**

**. .**

**Two**

The iron gate of Malfoy Manor looked grand but decrepit. The chilly wind did nothing to help Harry appreciate the beauty of the estate—or the lack thereof. Harry had always thought that having a big house was creepy, and seeing the abandoned Manor now affirmed his notion. His memory of the Manor only added his distaste.

No light but that of the moon was there, so Harry had to depend on _Lumos_. He whispered a spell so the Auror wards could let him through, feeling lucky for the first time that he was part of the investigation team. The gate no longer automatically opened to guests ever since the Aurors stripped everything from the estate, including its magic. Harry climbed it cautiously, worried in case there were some kind of triggers that the Aurors had put in without his knowledge. Upon landing on the other side, he let out a relieved breath and continued walking down the driveway.

Half a year ago, Harry still couldn’t walk into this place without suffering an overwhelming emotional turmoil. Tonight wasn’t that different, except the excitement of potentially discovering where Draco Malfoy had been hiding all this time beat every other emotion. But if there was one emotion that could win over the excitement, it was anger—Harry vowed he would punch Malfoy into a pulp the moment he saw him. Harry wasn’t here to save his own arse, and he wasn’t here to save Malfoy’s either. He was here to give the git a lesson.

Spelling another set of wards to open up for him, Harry pushed the front door open. A loud creak reverberated, creating a hollow echo throughout the empty front hall. Harry took in the surrounding area, and noted that everything was just like it had been the last time he was here. White sheets covered everything, dust and spider webs being the only things different to half a year ago. Eagerly Harry made his way along the long hallway, refusing to pause even when he realised he had no idea _where_ Malfoy’s secret place might be.

Something rustled behind him. Halting his steps, Harry turned around only to find empty air. But the rustling sounds continued, eerily whispering from somewhere behind the long walls. Harry frowned, intending to move nearer or just press his ear to the wall, when a loud _clang_ made him jump. Whirling around, he squinted into the dark. There was something reflecting his wand light on the tiles—a small chandelier. Harry inspected the bronze, small table attached to the opposite wall of the hallway, his frown deepening. Someone had clearly pulled the white sheet covering it, leaving the fabric discarded and the chandelier to roll down the tiles.

“Malfoy,” he hissed, feeling triumphant but also pissed off at the same time.

Throwing the chandelier with a rattle, Harry picked up his pace again, traversing ridiculously long hallway after hallway. “Malfoy,” shouted Harry crossly, his voice rebounding endlessly. He slammed every door open, his stomach tightening with annoyance with every fruitless search. “Malfoy, you bloody git, I know you’re here!”

A deep _swoosh_ passed through him—with it came a strong wind banging a huge door open right before him. Gaping, Harry stood rooted to the floor.

_Was that—?_

Pulling himself together, Harry slowly headed towards the door. His breath caught in his throat as he realised he was stepping into the very place where Dobby was last alive. Fury bubbled inside him.

“Malfoy,” he yelled, clenching his fist tight as his other hand waved the light on the tip of his wand almost savagely. “You fucking idiot,” he growled, crossing the dusty carpet towards the middle of the room. “I swear, if I catch you, I’ll kill—“

More wind knocked over him, and the next thing he knew, a large crystal chandelier crashed down from the ceiling, only inches from where his feet froze on the carpet. The deafening crash might have made his ears bleed, plus his arm burned, probably from where the crystal pieces scraped through his sleeve, but Harry could only replay how Dobby had destroyed the very same thing years ago.

And all of a sudden Draco Malfoy was there, glaring at him.

. . . or perhaps Harry’s eyes were playing tricks on him.

“. . . Malfoy?”

“Go the fuck away, Potter,” said Malfoy in a low hiss. Harry was sure no one but Malfoy could spit out his name like that. This was the real Malfoy, the one and only, even though he was . . .

“Malfoy,” Harry said, swallowing. “Are you a . . .”

“Ghost, Potter? Looks to me like I am,” Malfoy sneered, extending his arms open as he floated into the air. His body, wrapped in what looked like an expensive black jumper and trousers, was silvery translucent, his hair the soft colour of the moon, yet his eyes could reflect cold anger even better than when he was solid. Harry’s stomach lurched at the thought—Draco Malfoy was dead.

“When, how did you . . .” Harry licked his lips nervously. “Was it me? Am I too late to give you back your wand?”

“My wand?” Malfoy looked genuinely confused.

“Was it Voldemort?”

Malfoy winced, and Harry could feel it again—the strong wind swirling around them. The remains of the crystal chandelier jangled noisily, several white sheets blew off the furniture as they shook. A realisation hit Harry then.

“Wait, if you’re a ghost, how can you—did _you_ make this fall?” He pointed at the rattling chandelier, narrowing his eyes. “Did _you_ want to kill me?”

Malfoy seemed to sober up—the wind stopped blowing at once. Silence stretched out oddly again, before he sneered, “As if the Chosen One could die merely from a falling chandelier.”

“That’s not the point,” growled Harry.

“I only wanted you to go,” snapped Malfoy. “Still do, actually. Shall I show you the door?”

“No,” Harry snapped back. He took several deep breaths, knowing that he should process this new information—he couldn’t imagine what he would say to Robards tomorrow. “Look, can you—tell me, how and when did you die?”

Malfoy’s expression turned icy again. Harry could sense the wind picking up again, so he quickly raised his hands. “All right, I can guess, anyway! It’s probably the same with all the other ex-Death Eaters!” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at that. “But we never found your body, so we thought you were—” Harry paused, feeling his throat constricting. “We thought we still had time . . .”

But Harry had never really wanted to help—had never really cared if they really still had time. He was only furious, _betrayed_ —and those weren’t enough.

“There’s nothing to explain,” said Malfoy at last, his tone pained. Harry looked up to find him scowling at the floor. “I just—one day I was in my bed, then suddenly I’ve already—” He swallowed, clenching his transparent fingers into fists. “I didn’t even get to see my body.”

“You didn’t?”

“Perhaps my mother had buried me in the family graveyard for all I know.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy watched him carefully. “Why would—” He stopped himself, appearing to be somewhat unsettled before shaking his head. “Go away, Potter. You know I’m dead now, pity that you can’t kill me anymore. Go and tell your little Auror friends out there and never come back.”

Harry supposed it was exactly what he should do, but he still couldn’t bring himself to go.

“Go _away_ , Potter,” Malfoy pressed when Harry didn’t even move a finger. “My father wouldn’t approve of you—”

“Your father’s dead!”

“And so is yours,” Malfoy sneered. “Long before mine, may I add.”

“At least I’m still _alive_ ,” said Harry spitefully.

Stronger wind roared around him—Malfoy’s face contorted into pure rage as he grabbed blindly for something to throw. He swiped a ceramic vase, sending it to Harry in a powerful strike, but Harry was ready with a _Protego_. He smirked.

“Really, Malfoy, did you think you can beat me with only a—”

The vase broke through Harry’s shield, cuffing him right in the head. Harry didn’t even remember if the blow made him scream. The only thing his brain could supply in panic was that he still had Malfoy’s wand in his pocket, and how repulsed Malfoy’s eyes were. Then darkness took him under.

When he came to, Harry whimpered. His skull felt like cracking, and his stomach churned violently. The dream had come again. And this time Harry didn’t have the energy to fight it. He peeked through one eye, and saw the darkness that was enveloping the road to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy must have thrown him outside then.

Harry held his head with both hands, panting heavily. How could Malfoy be that strong as a ghost? Why did the nausea and headache worsen now of all times? He whimpered, feeling the stickiness in his hair and forehead that could only mean blood. He wanted to call Kreacher—he needed the potion, he couldn’t remember ever needing it more than now. But he could only manage a few incoherent syllables, before he vomited all over the ground.

He writhed, wet soil clinging to his skin and cloak as rain chose that very moment to pour down. Apparently even nature hated him. Collapsing with his cheek scraped against the gravel and the metal of his glasses digging into his skin, Harry could only stare listlessly at the silhouette of Malfoy Manor and the heavy drops of rain before he lost consciousness again.

**. .**

**. .**

The nausea was gone in the morning. Or was it afternoon? Harry blinked groggily, wondering where he was and what he had done to get his body all sticky, and why he was sleeping on gravel and soil. At the sight of one transparent Draco Malfoy, though, everything came crashing back. He sat up abruptly, hissing when the movement made his vision spin. Right, the git had hit him with a bloody vase. Fixing up his askew glasses, Harry gave Malfoy his best glare.

“Really, Potter, it was only a small vase—I’d assumed you'd at least know how to cast _Episkey_. Was it necessary to sleep all night in front of the gate? Or was the Malfoy ground really that comfortable? People would think someone murdered you, you see,” said Malfoy dismissively.

“You were the one who threw me out, you prat,” Harry said, with feeling. He fumbled around for his wand before trying his best to point it at his wound. Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“ _Episkey_ ,” Malfoy said with a wave of his hand. Harry sensed the dull ache in his forehead and arm vanish along with the hot and cold sensation he had grown accustomed to these past few years. Malfoy looked at him again, scrunching his nose up and spelling him clean. Ignoring the tingling feeling, Harry reached up, staring in awe at Malfoy as he touched the smooth skin of his forehead.

“How _did_ you do that?”

“With all you’ve done all these years, Potter, I would have thought you had known about magic.”

“No, you git, I mean why were you able to do that?” Harry paused, taking in his surroundings, and said, “How could you come out of the Manor? I thought ghosts were supposed to be tied down to a specific location by the Ministry! Besides—” He leapt on his feet and caught Malfoy’s arm.

“Wh—” Malfoy jerked backwards, his arm dissolving into air for a moment before it appeared again. “What are you doing?” He looked disgusted, while Harry let his fingers open and close in contemplation.

“You can make yourself solid or intangible as you wish,” Harry said.

“You touched me to prove that point? I’ve cuffed you with a bloody vase, Potter.”

“But can ghosts do that?”

“Well, I don’t know about the other ghosts, but I’ve always known I was special,” said Malfoy, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. At Harry’s look, he sent a sidelong, doubtful glance. “If you have any ridiculous theories that suggest otherwise, feel free to voice them, Potter.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “No theories and I don’t need your permission to talk. But with the many impossible things that have happened in my life, I wouldn’t scratch the possibility that maybe you’re not a ghost.”

“And with the many things that have happened in _my_ life, I wouldn’t think anything good could possibly take place at this point.”

Harry was a bit taken aback, but for once Malfoy wasn’t taking the piss. He just . . . looked tired, and perhaps wary. Maybe later when Harry had already showered and had breakfast, he would ask himself why he could read Malfoy’s expression when he was that colourless, but . . . he figured he just could, and that was all right for now.

“Look, you can touch things—and be touched, and you can go wherever you like, and you can do that wind blowing thing, and that _magic_ thing. Even Peeves can’t do magic,” Harry said, trying to rationalise his own thoughts even though he didn’t really know what those thoughts were. “Isn’t that weird?”

Malfoy’s body was stiff, but Harry now recognised the way he stood—floated, actually—from the dreams. All straight back and smooth movement, something that was born from endless practice and lessons. “I suppose it’s not normal, but . . .” Malfoy hesitated, looking up to Harry’s eyes, “does anyone know anything—any _news_ about me?”

“Just that you’ve been missing for half a year?” Harry said, his mind reeling.

“Figured,” said Malfoy quietly, throwing his glance towards the Manor. “I knew that’s why they kept coming. At one point they just stopped, though. That’s when I assumed they’d found out about my death.”

Harry frowned. He didn’t really understand how it felt to be trapped, waiting for the news about your own death, but that wasn’t what was important now. He reached into his pocket, taking out the bundle of satin. The wand inside wasn’t glowing, it seemed, and maybe that was why Harry didn’t wake up with the nausea. Putting it on the ground, Harry sat and exposed the wand with a simple spell. He lifted his face to see Malfoy’s reaction.

As expected, Malfoy’s eyes were wide and his mouth opened slightly in stunned silence. But that only lasted for a few seconds, before those eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a sneer. “What the _fuck_ , Potter? You never thought of giving me back my wand when I was alive, but now you’re showing it off?”

Harry resisted flinching at that. He swallowed the guilt—and yes, there was a possibility that if he had thought of returning the wand earlier, maybe Malfoy wouldn’t . . .

Pushing that thought aside, he said in as steady voice as possible instead, “This wand is feeding off my magic because it needs _your_ magic. If you were dead, it shouldn’t have done that. It still senses your magic.” He looked up again to find Malfoy hesitating, staring at his wand.

“We all know that magic won’t die,” said Malfoy. “The Hogwarts founders and the Da—”

“—Voldemort,” Harry cut him off. Malfoy didn’t so much as wince, but he looked even paler. When Malfoy spoke again, his voice shook a little.

“Maybe it’s the same with me.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “Voldemort left a curse, the founders left their magic in the castle—they’re just dead magic, you know? But your magic _needs_ a wand. It’s as if your magic is alive.”

“As if I _am_ still alive,” said Malfoy, his eyes widened in realisation. “Bloody hell, am _I_ still alive?”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Why don’t you test first if our assumption is correct?”

Malfoy stared at him, unsure and—there it came again, the flash of fear on his face. He then eyed the wand for a long time and swallowed. “What the fuck are you planning, Potter?” he asked loudly, his voice shaky. “Giving me hopes and then what? Laughing your arse off when it turns out that I’m indeed _dead_?”

“Ha-ha. Yeah, that’d be the funniest thing in this world, your death,” said Harry sarcastically. At Malfoy's heated glare, Harry clenched his jaw. “Look, it’s not just you. Your wand is eating my magic, and I’d die, too, if you can’t take it back.”

“The Boy Who Lived dies at the hands of his enemy’s wand? Merlin forbid,” snapped Malfoy. But Harry could see the way his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Concentrating back on his wand, Malfoy took a deep breath—or at least it looked like that, Harry didn’t even know how he breathed anymore—and lowered his feet to the ground, resting on one knee. His hand gave away a tremor as it paused for a second right above the wand. Then slowly, his fingers curled around it, the black colour visible through the outline of his fingers. At once a very bright light shot up that Harry had to shield his eyes from with his forearm. It was only there for a moment, yet Harry could still see spots in his vision thanks to the brightness.

“Well?” Harry asked when Malfoy only watched the wand in his hand.

“I don’t feel anything in particular,” Malfoy admitted. “I can use magic without my wand, but this still responds to my magic, I suppose,” he said as he sent a rainbow spark into the air. He looked at Harry and pondered, “What do you think it means?”

“It means I don’t have to have a headache anymore. It means the wand’s yours again.”

Malfoy shot him an annoyed glance. “Is that all you can tell me? Still not very bright, are you, Potter?”

“At least I figured it out myself.” Harry scowled. “The book only told me that if you need your wand badly, it’d suck my magic dry unless I return it to you.”

“But I don’t need it _badly_ ,” said Malfoy before he paused, frowning. “Perhaps . . . the fact that my magic runs free means I need something to contain it in . . . because I don’t have a body,” he said, his eyes widening. “I think I have read a ritual where one’s soul can be separated from one’s body!”

“You mean, like, your body is in coma or something?” Harry asked.

“I have to admit I’m still not sure,” said Malfoy, attempting to school his expression, but it was clear that the hope and enthusiasm were too huge for him to handle. “But my mother must know something. She must have been the one who performed the ritual,” he paused for a beat, uncertain, “although I’m not sure why she did this.”

Harry was also unsure why he was still there. He had done his share—the wand was back, he had given clues to Malfoy, and now he didn’t need to help Malfoy with anything more. But . . .

“There must have been something—a reason for her to do this. Something important, I reckon,” Malfoy said, his eyes unfocussed and Harry could see the fleeting hurt and doubt Malfoy tried so hard to mask. “She wouldn’t do this to me if there weren’t . . .”

“’Course she _wouldn’t_ ,” Harry said even before he could ask himself why he felt the need to reassure Malfoy. “She bloody lied to Voldemort for you.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, before he looked away and nodded. “Yes, that’s what I thought. But we still have to ask her. I mean, I’m sure she has a good reason, but I still want my body back.”

“Malfoy—”

“She never comes home lately, but since the Aurors kept coming, maybe she chose to stay somewhere in the Malfoy summer house or—”

“Malfoy, your mother—”

“I can find her myself, Potter,” said Malfoy, louder and faster than necessary. His lips pressed thin and Harry could see his neck rigid as he glared at Harry. “As you can see, I’m capable of going out by myself. I can find ways to visit my mother, I just need to decide which house I should visit first.”

Harry watched Malfoy staring at him with something akin to a challenge in his eyes, and somehow Harry couldn’t bring himself to utter the words that were already on the tip of his tongue. Malfoy tore his eyes away, fumbling with his wand. After a couple of beats, he said, “Don’t go near the Manor again, Potter.” He subsequently flew through the gate, not bothering to glance back at Harry again.

Harry sighed, scrubbing at his nape wearily. Of course he didn’t want to go there again, but . . .

He shook himself, making sure he had his wand and wished desperately for a comforting hot bath. But as he left Wiltshire and arrived in Grimmauld Place, he didn’t have time to do anything other than quick wash before grabbing his Auror robes. His whole body ached from sleeping on the ground, yet that wasn’t what made him tired. Somehow, everything was jumbled inside his head, and Harry didn’t know what had possessed him when he didn’t even mention anything about Malfoy in his meeting with Robards that afternoon.

**. .**

**. .**

“All right, Harry?” asked Neville as Harry slumped on his desk, face buried in his arms.

“Fine,” he said, didn’t even bother to look up. He had barely come in on time for his stakeout with Ron, and they had spent eleven hours hiding in a crate to ambush some illegal potions dealer making their transaction, but in the end the information they got had been leaked and the dealer had fled elsewhere. The only evidence left in the room was a map of England with a random blue mark on it. Another futile work, another bad impression. Another rain of spittle from Robards.

“At least you still got the Rowle case, mate,” said Ron limply from his own desk. “You can capture Death Eaters and all.”

“Ah, I’ll be in the team, too,” said Neville, smiling good-naturedly when Harry leaned back to his chair. “Briefing is tomorrow, right? The other team arrived in South America this morning.”

“You’re in the team?” Ron squeaked. “Bloody hell, should have forced Robards to put me in, too!”

“I heard they’ll assign as many Aurors as they can to track Malfoy down,” said Neville awkwardly. “He’s the last one after all.”

Harry was silent at that. Malfoy wasn’t really the last one—if anything, Rowle was the last. Malfoy had been dead for half a year, if Harry’s calculation was correct. Or in a coma, or . . . whatever Mrs Malfoy might have done to him. Or . . . was it Voldemort? Had the bastard planned something by using Malfoy? Harry also wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to have some dirty plans, but . . . he didn’t look like someone who knew anything. And Harry had had his own share of regrets for having nearly ki—for having _injured_ Malfoy because of his skewed perception in the sixth year. Was he ready to risk making the same mistake?

“Harry?” Neville called, looking at him worriedly. Ron mirrored his expression, while Harry tried not to mess his hair in distress.

“Hospitals, graveyards . . . I think we need to look them up again,” said Harry. “We always thought Malfoy was abroad like the others, but . . .”

“Whoa, do you think Malfoy’s dead?” Ron asked.

“The likelihood was always there,” Neville said. “We don’t know when the curse takes action. But we’ve got that covered, mate.”

“Yeah, but we always focus more on monitoring Portkey registries, Floo connections, Apparition trails, Muggle transportations . . . what if Malfoy didn’t really leave? What if he hid somewhere and then the curse activated and he’s in a hospital now? Or worse, dead?” Harry strived not to show how he almost cringed at the word.

“If that happens, Harry, people would have told us. The death is not exactly normal, even Muggle media would make a big fuss if someone was found dead with his arm burnt,” said Neville patiently.

“But we don’t really know, do we?” said Harry. “What if whoever found him didn’t want to report it and just—I don’t know, buried him somewhere, or sent him to a Muggle hospital and then he’d be cremated or buried as a John Doe? Or what if he’s still alive but still in a hospital? A Muggle one?”

“John who?” asked Neville.

“No, I mean—that doesn’t matter. It’s just, how if any of those things I mentioned happened to him?”

“Do you know something we don’t, Harry?” asked Ron slowly, his expression suspicious. Harry swallowed, rubbing his nose just to mask his anxiety.

“I just think we need to check again. More thoroughly this time.”

Neville and Ron stared at him for a long time, and then Neville said, “All right, I’ll tell Hannah. She’s good at collecting information, and she also has this Muggleborn friend who’s an expert on this thing called a computer. We don’t want Robards to know, do we?” He smiled knowingly.

“That’d be brilliant. Thanks, mate,” Harry said, blowing out a relieved breath.

“Do we want Hermione to know?” Ron asked, his expression doubtful. Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“I doubt she’ll agree, but if she does, maybe she can help Hannah,” he said. “And it’s about time you two made up.”

Ron groaned at that. Neville and Harry laughed harder.

At least now he had a start. Finding Malfoy’s body would be a good step to start this whole investigation—although he still had this nagging feeling about not telling his friends. But first things first, hence Harry shrugged and let himself forget about Malfoy for a while.

That night, Harry thought he would have the best sleep he had had in months without the dreams. But when his head touched the pillow, his treacherous mind decided to wander unwittingly. To Malfoy, to the fucking curse . . . to the possibility of Malfoy really being dead. When sleep finally came to him, it was already almost dawn.

**. .**

**. .**

Harry was standing outside the Manor gate again. He had been briefed for his mission to South America, and since he would likely be staying there for days or even weeks, there was one thing that he thought he should do beforehand. Harry just hoped his patience was enough to deal with Malfoy after an irritating day meeting with Robards and a bunch of Senior Aurors.

He climbed the gate and jumped to the other side, swearing when he realised how stupid it was not to bring a broom. The path to the front entrance was so far and it was wasting his time, when he could be catching up on his sleep with an early night. Once he arrived at the door, he cast _Lumos_ , pushed the door open, and was immediately greeted by a sneering Malfoy.

“Back so soon, Potter?” The way Malfoy enunciated his name—Harry swore he had never thought it was possible for Malfoy to say his name with a whole new level of contempt.

“Just want to tell you I’ve begun searching for your body,” said Harry, shrugging. It wasn’t exactly true, but his real reason for coming tonight was a bit harder to say. Malfoy watched him with indifference, and something prickled Harry’s mind—like something was definitely wrong but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was exactly.

“Yeah, well,” said Malfoy as he floated dismissively further inside, disregarding Harry. “No need to trouble yourself, you know. It’s not like I would thank you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry bristled. “I’m just—”

“I’m dead, Potter,” said Malfoy flatly, as if he was reading a script, his eyes apathetic.

“We’ve talked about the possibility of you being in a coma!”

“My mistake. I jumped to conclusions because a certain someone put ideas into my mind,” Malfoy sneered. “There’s a huge hole in my hypothesis, you see, and it’s the fact that a soul without a body wouldn’t be able to perform magic.”

Harry blinked, a sudden nasty sensation tugging in his guts. “What?”

“I’ve done some research, although I can’t do much since your little team of Aurors have taken away more than half of my family’s library.”

“We only took the Dark Arts books.”

“Last time I checked, separating souls from bodies is still a Dark Art. So you should understand where I'm coming from.”

“Well, then how can you be so sure that your theory is wrong?” Harry said indignantly. “You said yourself that you don’t have the books!”

“There’s one,” said Malfoy lazily, “that’s been left in my father’s study. There’s a little description about the ritual.”

Harry was at a loss. Malfoy looked so—blank, lethargic, like he had given up everything, even hope. This time Harry couldn’t really ignore the guilt of having made fun of Malfoy’s death two nights prior and immediately felt ashamed. But again, Malfoy didn’t make it easy for Harry to be sympathetic, and Harry wasn’t sure if he really wanted to be sympathetic to Malfoy.

“I—I’m just—”

“Forget it, Potter, if you feel sorry for having given me false hope, then you should be,” said Malfoy with a wave of his hand. He stopped floating and landed on the carpet, walking across the entrance hall to one of the hallways. Harry bit the inside of his right cheek, then followed him quietly.

There was no way Malfoy didn’t know Harry was following him, but it seemed like he couldn't be bothered to notice Harry. For the first time, Harry thought he preferred the Malfoy who was obnoxious, arrogant and childish. At least he could hate that Malfoy with passion, unlike _this_ Malfoy. In the end, when the silence became too much to bear, Harry said, “I still think there’s something different about you.”

“Yes, yes, different, but still dead,” said Malfoy without turning to face Harry.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“Let me help you research,” said Harry before he could stop himself. Malfoy halted his steps at that, regarding Harry.

“Pardon me, but I think I _misheard_ what you said.”

“I can get access to the books we confiscated at the Ministry, and I’ve already had Neville and Hannah checking hospitals and graveyards—”

“Graveyards, Potter? And you said you believe I’m still _alive_.”

“—and since we can’t confirm it with your mother, there’s nothing wrong in researching further.”

Malfoy’s face looked stricken all of a sudden, his shoulders tensed and his fingers clenched tightly. Harry held his breath when he realised what he had just said.

“About your mother—”

“She must be somewhere in the other houses—”

“—she died at the same time you went missing,” Harry finished, knowing there wouldn’t be any right way to say it. For a moment Malfoy didn’t react—he just stood there, wide eyed and stiff and looking so transparent that he was barely visible by the light of Harry's wand, but at that moment the angry wind whirled around him. Harry staggered, protecting his eyes from the various vases, chandeliers and other knick-knacks barraging him.

“Why must you say it?” Malfoy’s voice was low at first, before he screamed, “Why must you say it, Potter?”

Harry was slammed to the far end of the hallway, the wind roaring in his ears and his back burning from being dragged over the torn rugs. He strived to keep his glasses on, but it was so hard to see with the wind attacking him from every corner and tears welling up in his eyes. “ _Fuck_ , stop it, Malfoy,” cried Harry as a picture frame almost collided with his head. But Malfoy was having none of it—it seemed like forever that Harry was in the middle of a typhoon, constantly having to dodge things when it was hard enough even to keep his eyes open.

When the wind finally died down, Harry felt his head throbbing and his limbs hot from scratches. He rubbed his eyes from the tears, and fixed his glasses. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, but it wasn’t like Harry expected otherwise. He took a shuddering breath, stood up shakily and went to pick up his still lit wand. With another deep breath, he strode back along the hallway.

Malfoy Manor was too big for Harry’s liking, though. It took him nearly an hour just to check the rooms and hallways on the ground floor, and still Malfoy was missing. The only sign that he was still there was the way white sheets blew about the place and furniture slid and tumbled by. Harry followed the mess that led to the stairs.

On the first floor, the rooms were bigger, the doors were farther apart. He kept searching, silently wondering why the hell he even cared. But the more he wanted to leave and write it off as another fight with Malfoy, the guiltier he felt. He should have known from the way Malfoy hadn’t wanted to let Harry talk—it was as if Malfoy himself had suspected what had happened to his mother, but refused to believe it. Now though, Harry had said it out loud, and there was no way he could take it back.

Sighing, Harry rubbed his forehead against the dull yet insistent ache. He stopped in his tracks when he felt a breeze. It wasn’t like Malfoy’s mad, angry tornadoes. It felt gentle and cool like ordinary night air. He slowly turned a corner and saw Malfoy standing in front of an open window, hands clutched tightly on the white-painted sill. Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself for more confrontation, but Malfoy didn’t even want to look at him.

“Um,” Harry said, hating himself for not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry about your—um, mother.”

Malfoy didn’t answer, keeping his back towards Harry.

“I didn’t mean to—you know. It’s just—well, she saved me, so it was a shock for me, too. She wasn’t even a Death Eater . . . and I’m sorry for telling you that, but I just—you know, thought you should know.”

Another silence stretched between them. Harry dug his fingers into his palms and tried not to make too much noise with his nervous breathing. Malfoy didn’t even move, and Harry hated the way he couldn’t read this Malfoy. It was as if Malfoy was really a ghost—and maybe he was—without any signs of emotions displayed, all translucent in the soft glow of moonlight and the stars peeking through his silhouette. Harry pressed his lips together and was about to give up, when Malfoy said in a low voice, “I hate being dead.”

Harry stared, having no words to say to that. He cut the distance between them, slowly inching forward to Malfoy’s side. Now Harry could see the way Malfoy’s eyebrows were drawn together, how his lips pinched tight. Malfoy blinked and blinked his dry eyes, and he looked so wretched that Harry couldn’t help but feel something weighing his chest and clogging his breathing.

“Can’t cry?” Harry asked despite the fact that his voice seemed to almost desert him.

“Tears are overrated,” said Malfoy tightly. “I don’t need them any longer.”

“But you want them now,” said Harry.

“One of the perils of being a ghost. Wonder if Myrtle feels like this every time she wants to cry.”

“She’s got all the water in the bathroom as her tears,” said Harry as lightly as possible, but he couldn’t stop himself from watching Malfoy carefully. Malfoy appeared to be blowing out his breath, his parted lips quivering, and Harry had to force himself not to bring his fingers there to sense whether Malfoy was still breathing. “I’ll still search for your body. Just so you know.”

“For the last time, Potter, I don’t need your help.”

“I’m not helping you. Believe it or not, it’s actually important for our investigation.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Figured. Hoping to send me to jail if I turn out to be alive, are you? I’m _dead_ , Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “There’s no instruction to capture you. We just need to solve this whole chaos Voldemort left.” Malfoy stayed silent, only keeping his eyes far below, on the dying garden and who knew what, so Harry continued, “Do you still have it—even as a ghost?”

“The Dark Mark?” Malfoy gave a bitter laugh. “It tortured me when I was alive, it might be what killed me, and it’s following me even after my death. How brilliant is that?”

“You brought it on yourself.”

“Yes, because my family—who are all _dead_ now—were fucking important to me, Potter,” said Malfoy. Harry swallowed and kept his mouth shut, gripping his wand tighter.

“Right, okay. I just want you to know that I’m sorry about—well, about your mum, and I’ll keep you updated if I find your body. That’s all,” he said eventually. “And it’ll be a lot better if you can tell me where the Malfoy graveyard is . . .”

Malfoy looked at him with visible tiredness, as if he couldn’t fathom why he even let Harry stay this long. “I’m not telling you anything. Not now.”

“But you will?”

“Most likely not,” said Malfoy, dismissing him again and going back to staring outside. “Can you go now?”

 _No_ , Harry wanted to answer, but instead he bit his tongue and nodded. Malfoy had just received a massive blow from Harry’s clumsy attempt at telling him about his mother, Harry should at least give him time to cope with it. No one should have their parents killed, not even Malfoy. The image of his own parents flashed in his mind, and he swallowed back a choke. “I’ll keep you updated,” he said again as he stepped back, grateful his voice didn’t waver much.

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder, his expression not visible to Harry now. Turning back the way he came, Harry spent the whole time walking out of the Manor and to the gate thinking about the grey lines of Malfoy’s fingers that never once loosened from around the window sill as they talked.

**. .**

**. .**

“How did it go, lads?” Williamson asked, trudging past Harry and Neville. He eyed the metal door that separated the narrow corridor and the path to the interrogation room. A Brazilian Auror, Belmiro, nodded at him, dragging the heavy door open for him.

“It’s been six hours,” said Neville, although Harry was sure Neville knew Williamson didn’t really expect an answer. Williamson shook his head slightly before he disappeared behind the door. Belmiro rolled his eyes at Harry, and then he showed off a dazzling smile that reminded Harry of Lockhart.

“Sure it’ll take a lot more than six hours. Why not take a little break?” Belmiro offered.

“Sounds good. We could use some coffee, right, Harry?” Neville nudged Harry’s shoulder.

“I want to go inside again,” said Harry, glaring at the metal door. “I want to . . .” _find out what exactly killed Malfoy._ “. . . I mean, he should just let us know what happened if he was smart.”

Neville sighed. “I think he knows that we won’t be able to help him even if he told us. I don’t suppose he knows anything more than us, though, Harry. He just looked so . . . lost.”

Maybe that was true. Rowle didn’t even put up a struggle when Harry, Neville and Williamson cornered him in his small house. Dawlish, Savage, Belmiro and other Brazilian Aurors whose names Harry didn’t really care enough to remember were on standby, hiding behind the bushes and trees and utilizing all the Disillusionment Charm variations they knew. But it was all for naught. Rowle wasn’t even surprised to see them. His huge frame was hunched, hair unkempt—he looked completely defeated. But that didn’t make the interrogation any easier. Rowle seemed to be extremely loyal to his mad leader, even when his own life was on the line.

“Still, there should be something—anything. Even Horcruxes can be destroyed,” said Harry. “If Hermione was here—”

A heart-shattering cry cut through the metal door, and then there were uproar and the sounds of furniture being upended. He exchanged alarmed glances with Neville. Belmiro shouted in Portuguese and slammed open the door. Harry and Neville were hot on his trail, storming through the short, even narrower hallway. The bright Muggle neon lamps heightened the surreal atmosphere, and Harry could feel his mind spinning in panic. Once they broke through another metal door, Harry froze before he could even step inside.

Rowle was writhing on the floor, his left arm bright red, blood trailing like snakes over the Dark Mark. His right hand was clawing over the raw skin. Dawlish, Williamson and Savage were all staring in terror, as though they had forgotten that their mission was to keep the last survivor safe. Rowle’s harsh cries soared louder and louder, until at some point his voice broke and heavy breathing was the only thing Harry could hear. The sudden quiet broke Harry out of his shock, and he rushed over to where Rowle was making a mess of his own arm.

“Fucking do _something_ ,” yelled Harry at the other Aurors, before he strived to remember some spells, _anything_ , that could help the last living human who might be able to bring Malfoy back. “ _Aguamenti_!” He tried, washing all the red lines off Rowle’s arm, but from the way Rowle jerked in spasms, Harry could tell it didn’t work.

Dawlish and Savage were holding Rowle’s upper body, while Neville and Belmiro tried to keep his legs from kicking around. Williamson barked orders to some witches through the Auror communication line, asking for emergency help from the local Wizarding hospital. Rowle’s eyes were rolling to the back of his head, the sickly whiteness of his eyes making Harry wince and swear. Rowle couldn’t fucking die now, just when Harry had finally found a reason to help. If only Hermione was here, maybe she would know something, even if it was only how to lengthen Rowle’s life for another day. If only Malfoy was—

A gurgling sound vibrated in Rowle’s throat, white foam seeping through the parted lips. Belmiro was talking endlessly in Portuguese, Dawlish and Savage swearing in what seemed like seven languages, their wands sparking colourful lights as they cast the spells that they already knew from the briefing would be futile, but still tried anyway. Neville was about to say something to Harry, opening his mouth, when Rowle’s left arm flared with blue and yellow flames. The four of them jolted backwards, staring in horror as the fire engulfed the skin of that arm, crinkling any trace of life away with every lick, until the convulsions were gone from Rowle’s body. Then the fire died out.

“Merlin,” Savage managed a whisper after what seemed like an eternity.

“I think he’s dead,” Williamson said in a defeated tone, already giving up on calling for help. He shuffled over, tentatively searching for a pulse on Rowle’s neck with his fingers. He nodded in confirmation after a while.

“. . . what should we do now?” Neville asked, still staring at the corpse and not quite succeeding in overcoming his shock, if the way his voice trembled was any indication. Savage and Dawlish were already engaged in heated conversation about what course of action they thought they should do now that the mission had failed. Only Belmiro put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and shook him out of his passive observation.

“Are you all right, kid?”

Was he all right? He certainly was, because it wasn’t like it was his first time seeing this kind of gruesome scene. It wasn’t like Rowle was someone he held dearly to him or was even worth his sympathy. But somehow, he couldn’t help but imagine—if that was Malfoy who writhed on the floor, if that was Malfoy who screamed his voice hoarse, who was helpless and pale and beyond help with foam at his lips and the greys and blacks of his eyes disappeared to the back of his head. The thoughts made Harry’s lunch threaten to escape from his mouth and something wet formed in the corners of his eyes. It was like someone had just kicked him in the guts and it _hurt so bad_.

Because Harry had done nothing to help. Because when he wanted to, he had failed.

“I don’t think I am,” said Harry quietly.

**. .**

**. .**

**Three**

When Harry listlessly dragged himself home on Thursday afternoon after submitting a report to Robards, Ginny’s owl was waiting for him on the kitchen table. Kreacher must have taken care of it like usual, for the tiny brown owl would have never flown back to its owner if Harry hadn’t accepted the letter himself.

“How’re you, Sarr?” Harry asked in passing as he untied the scroll from its leg. It nearly bit him, but Harry was used to it, so he resisted the urge to stick his tongue out childishly to show that he wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice. As though it was possible, Sarr looked as if it wanted to roll its eyes. Harry scooted the white bowl where he stored some owl treats over and let Sarr collect them itself before it took off through the nearby window.

Shaking his head, Harry began to read the letter.

> _I heard from Ron you’re looking for Malfoy privately. Tell me, Harry, is there any reason for this? Because if there is . . ._

Harry sucked a deep breath upon reading the next sentence.

> _I think I know where you might find him._  
> 

Shakily putting the parchment on the table, Harry took a seat and tried to process this new piece of information.

Ginny was an archaeology student—her desire to be free and see the world had made her jump at Bill’s offer when he had said that his friend, Neil Leppert, was searching for an assistant. Two years later, she was helping Neil researching magical prehistoric sites all over the country, while working on her degree. Which was why, if she said she knew where Malfoy was, could it be that she knew where the old and closed-from-public Malfoy family cemetery was? Did that mean Malfoy had really . . .

Crushing that thought, Harry rose to grab a quill and ink. He jotted down a short note on the back of Ginny’s letter.

> _Can I meet you?_  
> 

He sent Eli, his grey owl, to deliver the note to Ginny. He knew Ginny wouldn’t be able to reply back fast enough, for who knew where she might be right now, probably digging some mysterious grave or buried under mountains of research parchment. Hence, Harry found himself restless, pacing in his kitchen and sensing all of his exhaustion withering away as the seconds ticked by. 

Finally fed up, he Apparated to Wiltshire before his brain could supply a better suggestion than to go to Malfoy Manor.

Stumbling upon landing, Harry caught himself before he could touch the Auror wards around the gate. He spelled them down, mounted the gate and broke into a run once he stepped on the other side.

The image of Rowle writhing on the floor flashed through his mind, and Ginny’s letter kept on popping up. Yet now that Harry thought about it again, Mrs Malfoy wouldn’t have been able to bury Malfoy. When had she even managed to escape from the Aurors’ observation? But then again, no one knew when Malfoy had died, so it wasn’t impossible that Mrs Malfoy had found a way to bury Malfoy in their secret cemetery before she died in the Manor. Harry felt sick at the thought, wishing he could just forget all these things and continue his normal life as an incompetent Auror.

He slipped through another layer of wards and the front door, half-expecting Malfoy to shoo him away again with a disdainful glare, but there wasn’t any sign of him. Harry tried to ignore the disappointment that was creeping stubbornly inside.

“Er, Malfoy?” he called out. There wasn’t any answer, so Harry bit his lower lip and proceeded to cross the entrance hall. Somehow, traversing Malfoy Manor was no longer hard because of his memory of the war. It was hard because the longer Harry counted the time he spent thinking about Malfoy alone in this place, the more he was convinced Malfoy was indeed a ghost. Despite the fact that he wanted to think otherwise, despite all the odd characteristics that Malfoy had that the other ghosts didn’t, it was getting harder and harder to believe that Malfoy was still alive. And Harry hated that feeling.

It might have been half an hour or more, but Malfoy was still nowhere to be seen. The light from the sun slipping through the windows had started to darken. Maybe Malfoy was out somewhere, traumatizing Muggles by appearing out of nowhere and shouting ‘boo’ to children. Harry couldn’t blame him if he wanted to relieve stress and go back to his old, dastardly self. It didn’t mean Harry wouldn’t give him hell if he found out Malfoy really did that, though.

Opening the window where he had last seen Malfoy, Harry perched himself on the sill and tried to empty his mind. Which was why he almost fell off the window when Malfoy emerged behind him, his cold presence bringing gooseflesh to the back of Harry’s neck.

“Fucking hell,” yelled Harry, jumping to his feet. “What’re you doing?”

“I could ask the same of you,” said Malfoy mockingly, “what are _you_ doing in my house?”

“Searching for you, why else?” snapped Harry. When Malfoy merely raised his stupidly elegant eyebrow, Harry felt heat sneaking up his neck.

“Thrilled as I am to have the Golden Boy chasing after me, I would have thought you would at least clean yourself up a bit before coming here.”

Glancing down at the wrinkled Auror robes that he had worn for the past three days, Harry scowled. He had only brought three sets of uniform for a two weeks mission, because that was what a Cleaning Charm was for, wasn’t it? Now though, under Malfoy’s scrutiny, he wished he had at least had a shower and changed his clothes. “I just came back from a long mission,” he said, refusing to think why the hell he cared to explain.

“Ah, should I feel flattered that you chose to visit me first thing after you came home?”

“Whatever you think, Malfoy.” Harry rolled his eyes, fighting back the flush that was threatening to come. Seeing the irritating smirk on Malfoy’s lips, though, Harry’s scowl deepened. Then he remembered that two weeks ago Malfoy had looked almost shattered at this same spot, but now he looked strangely . . . normal. Like nothing serious had happened to him through the years. It took Harry a little more time to remember how in sixth year Malfoy had more or less managed to cover his frustration in public. Harry wondered if Malfoy still could perfect that mask even after his dea . . .

Shaking himself, Harry tore his eyes away from Malfoy.

“Cat got your tongue, Potter?”

“Where were you?” Harry asked. “I thought you weren’t here.”

Malfoy gave him a filthy look. “Not that it is any of your business, but I was in my parents’ suites.”

“Oh.”

“I found a lot of my mother’s books—a diary of some sorts and novels. Nothing really important that would catch your little friends’ attention.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Nice try, Malfoy, because it’s so natural to remind people about how _not_ important your discovery is.”

“That’s because you always assume I do something suspicious.”

“I don’t,” Harry said, and added when Malfoy narrowed his eyes accusingly, “all right, maybe I do, but this makes you even more suspicious.”

“If you’re only here to satisfy your pathetic need to convict a dead ex-Death Eater, then why don’t you go home?” said Malfoy, floating backward to press his back on the opposite wall and crossing his arms. “This is getting ludicrous, Potter. What do you want from me?”

“I—” Harry hesitated, not knowing what he wanted. “I saw how Rowle died . . .”

“Brilliant, that would make your fantasy about my death more vivid, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy sneered.

“ _Fantasy_?” Harry growled. “Where the fuck did you get you that from?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe from the fact that you’re so obsessed about my death?” said Malfoy. “Besides, shouldn’t you be celebrating the fact that one more Death Eater has been eliminated?”

“Fuck, Malfoy, I’m not here to celebrate or anything, he was the last Death Eater and—”

“—even more a reason to celebrate, isn’t it?”

“—all I can think is just how I don’t want you to—”

“—what, Potter? Don’t want me to what?” asked Malfoy sharply.

Biting the inside of his lower lip, Harry curled his fingers into fists, breathing hard through his nose. He didn’t even know what he didn’t want Malfoy to, aside from maybe _die_. And maybe he was here to assure himself that Malfoy was still here, and hoping it wouldn’t change even after he witnessed Rowle’s death, after imagining how Malfoy probably died, too. After reading what Ginny’s letter implied. But it wasn’t something Harry could freely confess.

“Whatever, Malfoy,” said Harry at last, taking a deep breath and letting his shoulders sag a little. “Didn’t expect you’d understand anyway.” He looked away from Malfoy’s challenging eyes.

“That’s rich, Potter,” Malfoy snarled. “You came here strutting around like you own the bloody Manor and now you’re talking as if _I’m_ the one who should be more understanding?” He threw his hands up in a dramatic manner when Harry reluctantly glanced at him. “You’re mental, I just have no other words.”

“I’m not strutting around.” Harry sighed. “Fine, I’m sorry for—I don’t know—visiting you here? Making you think I want to take over the place? But I—”

“Don’t make me laugh by acting like you care,” said Malfoy, laughing dryly just to prove his point.

“I’m not,” said Harry with a glare, “acting, that is.”

Malfoy sniffed at that, staring into the dark hallway that seemed endless, appearing like a completely alive person and not at all a ghost. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, as though he had forgotten that Harry was there, watching him closely like he had nothing better to do. Then Malfoy shook his head, throwing Harry an unreadable gaze. “I’m not going to humour you by taking part in whatever it is you’re planning, Potter. But if you enjoy coming here that much, then be my guest, it’s not as if your friends _and_ yourself haven’t snatched everything away from this place—from _us_ already.”

“Voldemort was the one who snatched everything away.”

Malfoy gave a derisive laugh. Shaking his head again, his eyes somehow turned sorrowful, regretful, although Harry could have sworn there were many other emotions behind that dry smile. “He wasn’t, because he was a destroyer. Don’t you understand that, Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth, but couldn’t find anything to say. Malfoy shrugged, turning his gaze away.

“Do whatever you like,” said Malfoy after a while. Before Harry could reply to that, though, he backed away farther, sinking into the wall and vanishing. Harry was left staring dumbly at the empty wall, wondering what the fuck had just happened.

He couldn’t shake the image of Malfoy’s sad eyes from his mind. Fuck.

Not wanting to spend more time trying to figure out what Malfoy meant and why Harry even wanted to understand, he rubbed his face and walked out of the Manor. It took him a pretty spectacular fall over a horse statue before he remembered to cast _Lumos_.

**. .**

**. .**

At Grimmauld Place, Ginny was waiting for him. She curled on the sofa near the hearth, skimming through a Quidditch magazine. Harry hadn’t had a chance to speak before she sprung onto her feet and crushed him into a hug.

“It’s been so long,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah,” said Harry, feeling guilty that seeing her made him think about Malfoy even more. “Yeah, are you—er—well?”

Ginny released him, raising an eyebrow tauntingly. “You didn’t seem to be interested in hearing about me in your letter, though. And Harry, ew, you need a shower.”

Harry flushed. “Uh, yeah, been a long day. Should I . . .” He waved vaguely upstairs.

“Yes, you should. Take a nice shower, change your clothes and I’ll be waiting here for you with tea.”

“Okay,” mumbled Harry. He was _dying_ to know about Malfoy and he nearly asked Ginny to just get to the point, because he couldn’t be arsed to care how he looked right now. But his respect for her stopped him. Ginny deserved the respect—she had been really nice even after their break up, when she had no reason to be. So Harry rushed upstairs and took a shower in record time, almost tripping as he put on his washed out blue jeans in haste.

Down in the kitchen, Ginny was nursing her tea, staring at him amusedly while Harry nervously dried his hair with a towel. He could feel the cold water dripping onto his shoulders, soaking his white t-shirt.

“Wow,” Ginny said, “not even ten minutes, Harry. I doubt it was more than five.”

“Ginny, I need to—”

“Tea, Harry,” said Ginny, pushing a cup over the table. Harry reluctantly took a seat across from her and reached for the cup.

“Okay, so, Ginny, I need—”

“Tell me first what’s so important about it that you’ve become this jittery.”

Clenching his jaw, Harry resisted from lashing out at her. He was _too_ tired for this. “It’s one of my missions, Ginny.”

“But you’re doing this without Robards knowing, aren’t you?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Hermione wants to know what’s on your mind.”

“Sure it’s not just you?” snapped Harry. Upon Ginny’s sceptical glare, Harry sighed, rubbing his nape. “Sorry, but this is important for me. Please?”

Ginny’s eyes softened and she smiled slightly. “All right, so you want to be all mysterious right now. Reminding me of old days, you know? Only this time even Ron and Hermione don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything,” said Harry resignedly. “I only want to know where Malfoy is. Because Rowle is—the Death Eater I was supposed to capture for the last mission . . . he died.”

Ginny didn’t say anything, but her eyes had that shine Harry knew so well every time she was being sympathetic to Harry for being the bloody Chosen One.

“Harry, I still think you should tell Robards, or maybe _I_ should. Because this is a big case, isn't it?”

“It is, but—”

“You have no idea how Hermione is going to react to this. She still thinks you shouldn’t act by yourself, you know. I heard her having a row with Ron just last weekend.”

“Yes, I _know_ how she’s going to react, but Ginny, I need your help,” he tried again.

“Ugh. Fine, Harry.” She sighed. “You should be glad I still haven’t told anyone. What do you want to know?”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” said Harry. Ginny nodded and gave him the chance to continue. He took a moment to brace himself. “Did you . . . find Malfoy in the Malfoy cemetery?”

Ginny tilted her head, staring at Harry for far longer than necessary. Harry refused to back down from her stare.

“I know where that cemetery is,” she said. “Neil has been there once ages ago because the Malfoys needed him to break some ancient cryptic codes. I was shown the codes and they were brilliant, I tell you,” then she paused, narrowing her eyes. “But no, Harry, I don’t think you’d find Malfoy there.”

Releasing his breath, Harry felt his bones nearly melt in relief. Malfoy was not buried. He was not in the cemetery. Harry thought he could kiss even Kreacher right now.

“I don’t think he died, if that’s what you think,” said Ginny again. “Why would you suspect he was buried?”

“I don’t know. I mean,” Harry said, wringing his hands vaguely, overwhelmed by that addition of information. Malfoy had _not_ died. “I just thought since you’re digging graves every day . . .”

“Harry, I do _not_ dig graves every day. What do you think archaeologists are?” said Ginny, clearly offended. “Honestly!”

“You sounded like Hermione,” Harry pointed out. “But where is he? In a hospital?”

“No,” said Ginny, sounding bemused. “Why would you think he’d be in a hospital? Harry, you’re acting weird!”

“Then where is he?” Harry almost lost his patience. If Malfoy wasn’t dead, if he wasn’t in a hospital either, then where the bloody hell was his body?

“Well, this is going to be shocking,” said Ginny, suddenly forgetting about her anger and whispering with a scandalised tone. She bent lower over the table, motioning Harry to mirror her.

“What . . .?”

Ginny’s eyes lit up. “Listen. You’re not going to believe this.”

**. .**

**. .**

Harry arrived in Callington early in the morning. Ginny had told him Neil’s colleague’s Floo address, which turned to be a B&B. The owner was a chubby, middle aged woman, whose brown curls were tied up in a low pony tail. She hugged him when Harry emerged from the hearth, telling him how much she was grateful for his heroism during the war. Harry had to endure forty-five long minutes of listening to her chatting about her daughters and sons and grandchildren, before he could extract himself from her. He made a mental note to take the risk of long distance Apparition next time.

Ginny had drawn him a map. But it wasn’t that difficult to find his destination—it wasn’t really far from the B&B. The building was modest and painted in beige, with a thatched roof. It had three stories, with rows of windows on the first and second floor, telling Harry that there were a number of small rooms. It had a nice garden, not too big but not too small—enough for children to play and run around without having to crash into something every five minutes. An old, rickety swing was placed under a balding tree, red leaves scattered around it.

Stepping up onto the front steps, Harry took a breath before knocking the door. There weren’t any sounds from inside, so Harry tried harder. Before he finished knocking three times, though, a black-haired woman opened the door.

“Yes?” she asked. “How can I help you?”

“Er,” said Harry, wiping his sweaty palms against his dark brown coat. “I’m here to meet someone.”

“Who?” asked the woman again. Her blue eyes narrowed. “You’re not saying one of our kids gave you trouble, are you?”

“Trouble?” asked Harry, baffled. He cleared his throat before continuing, “No, er, actually, I really am looking for someone. I’m Harry Potter.” He offered his hand.

The woman took his hand. “Leah Hayton. Who are you looking for, Mr Potter? If you want to talk about adoption, I’m sorry to say but the head of this orphanage is currently on a trip.”

“I’m not really here for adoption business, but I’m looking for a man. About your age, actually,” said Harry.

Hayton wrinkled her forehead. “About my age? Then he must be our staff. We have three men helping us here every day, but today is Ian’s turn.”

“No, no, if he’s really here, his name is Dra—”

“Oh, that’s him!” Hayton waved ecstatically at someone behind Harry. Turning around, Harry couldn’t believe what he saw.

It was unmistakably Draco Malfoy. But at the same time, he was _not_ Draco Malfoy. Because Draco Malfoy wouldn’t let his fringe loose and messy like that, wouldn’t wear a washed out denim jacket on top of a black t-shirt that had seen better days, or trainers Harry was sure would have been white if the dirt hadn’t been that thick. And more importantly, Draco Malfoy should not have been this—alive when his soul was out of his body.

Really, Harry had been sceptical the entire night when Ginny had told him about this. He couldn’t counter her because if he did, he would have had to explain why he was so sure Malfoy wouldn’t be walking around in a small Muggle town. In the end he came anyway, simply because he was curious. And because if he didn’t at least try, that meant he was back to square one—not knowing whether Malfoy was alive or not. But he didn’t expect to really find _Malfoy_ here.

What was disconcerting, however, was the way Malfoy saw him as though Harry was of no significance in his life.

“Hey, Leah,” said Malfoy, raising his hand in a careless wave.

“Ian, this is Mr Potter, and Mr Potter, this is Ian Raines,” said Hayton. “I’m sorry, Mr Potter, who are you looking for again?”

“Er—right,” said Harry, unable to tear his gaze away from the flat look Malfoy— _Raines_ gave him. “I’m actually . . . looking for him.”

Raines raised that stupid Malfoy eyebrow at that.

“Oh, that’s nice. Why don’t you two come in, then?” Hayton said again, her tone was confused, but Harry couldn’t care less.

“Looking for me?” Raines asked. “Come on then. We can talk anywhere but inside.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s getting cold outside!” Hayton chided. “I’ll make you two tea.”

“No, I’m not letting any of the kids eavesdrop on me again,” said Raines, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“Actually, it’s fine, we can talk anywhere you like,” said Harry hastily. Hayton huffed in annoyance.

“Fine, have at it.”

“Great,” said Raines.

“Thank you, Ms Hayton,” said Harry.

“Don’t mention it. And it’s Leah, I kinda hate that surname, you know,” Leah said hastily, then glared at Raines. “Don’t blame me if you catch a cold again.”

“Shut up, will you?” Raines said dismissively, giving Harry a side long glance before he turned around and gestured Harry to follow him.

“Um, all right, Leah, you can call me Harry, too, and I’m, um—”

“Yeah, sure, Harry, just follow him, he’s a bit impatient,” said Leah. Nodding at her, Harry couldn’t help but notice the way she looked at Raines’s retreating back. It was something like . . . worry?

Shaking his head, Harry turned and tried to focus on the man walking before him. They took the small path through the garden and rounded a corner. They were at the back of the orphanage building, and the wall there was completely plain aside from one bench strategically placed there against the wall. Raines sat on it, crossing his legs calmly. Harry shuffled his feet nervously, thinking about how to broach the delicate subject.

“The bench won’t bite you,” said Raines.

Harry couldn’t resist it any longer.

“What’s your plan, Malfoy? Why are you acting like a Muggle and pretending to be dead? Is it Voldemort’s plan? Is that it? Is that why you’re lying to me?”

Raines stared at him blankly, mouth slightly open. He looked genuinely like he had no idea what Harry was talking about, but Harry _knew_ he should not trust this man that easily.

“Are you even talking in English?” Raines asked eventually. “What’s Muggle? Vol—voldemort?”

“You can drop the act,” said Harry, jaw clenched. “I can prove that you’re Malfoy.” He cut the distance, snatching Raines’ left arm and rolling the jacket sleeve up.

“Hey,” yelled Raines. Harry tuned him out, though, for the arm in his hand was clear from any Dark Marks.

“. . . how?” asked Harry in shock. There was no way Malfoy could get rid of the Dark Mark. His ghost even said so himself. But again, there was a possibility that Malfoy’s ghost lied to him. Nevertheless, if it was indeed Voldemort’s plan, it was so unlikely of him. He wouldn’t have let anyone get rid of the Mark—it was just not his style.

“Hello?” The arm in his hands was suddenly pulled back, leaving Harry to stare at his open palms stupidly. “Are you on something?”

“Uh—sorry,” said Harry reluctantly. He took a step back and found Raines watching him funny. “I thought you were my—”

“Lover? Boyfriend?” offered Raines.

“Schoolmate, actually,” corrected Harry with passion.

“Ah, but you were so excited,” said Raines, shrugging. Harry watched him in silence as he pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter from one of his many cargo pockets. “Want one?”

Shaking his head, Harry kept silent.

This man was not Malfoy— _not_ Malfoy. He talked too casually, lacking the posh drawl Malfoy had patented. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag of it with practiced ease, and he was too Muggle, too expressionless and careless about everything. He was so many things that wasn’t Malfoy, and yet . . . why would he look a lot like Malfoy? And did that mean Harry had to search again for Malfoy’s body? Did that mean it was still possible that Malfoy was dead?

Fuck. Falling after getting your hopes up was the cruellest thing ever. Was this what Malfoy felt that day when he realised he was not a soul?

Harry wanted to laugh at himself. Of course not. Malfoy was hurt more because it was about him. And why would Harry feel hurt when it was only about _Malfoy_ anyway?

“Cat got your tongue?” asked Raines, and Harry started. Raines was looking at him with calm eyes, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“You—but you sounded so much like him, saying that,” said Harry, raking his fingers through his hair in distress.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Raines laughed, but it was lacking of humour. It wasn’t mocking either—just an empty string of laughter that made Harry uneasy. “Listen, plenty of people say that phrase. Not exactly a property of your boyfriend, is it?”

“I know,” said Harry through gritted teeth. “It’s just—you _sound_ like him, _look_ like him. But you’re not him.”

“Yeah?”

“I made a mistake, he’s not—he’s not like you. He’s much, much more . . . ”

“Attractive? Kind? Sexy?” asked Raines, waving his hand dismissively. “Well, good for him then.”

Harry stared at Raines for a long minute, then he sighed, taking a seat on the bench and putting his head in his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t _fucking_ know.”

“Ah,” there was the sound of Raines taking a long drag, “but how did you know about me?”

Harry looked up, meeting Raines’s eyes as he blew the smoke. “My friend—she’s an archaeologist, she was here during her research and saw you accidentally.”

“Archaeologist?” Raines let out that empty laughter again. “Looking for Celliwig, was she?”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Maybe she was looking for something else, I didn’t really ask.”

“They believe in myths, that lot.”

“Don’t insult my friend—”

“Why?” asked Raines flatly. “Because I’ll ruin your perfect boyfriend’s image?”

Curling his fingers into fists, Harry narrowed his eyes. “You know what, I—”

“Monica,” said Raines suddenly, looking past Harry’s shoulder. “Hey, why are you here?”

Irked, Harry turned to see who the hell had just interrupted him and found a small red-haired girl, maybe about five years old, hugging her tattered teddy bear and staring forlornly at Raines. She shifted to regard Harry, letting her curls sweep her tiny shoulders.

“Monica, you’re not dressed enough to be out here.” Raines pointed at Monica’s frilly blue dress, which was a bit too short on her. “Let’s get you back inside, shall we?”

Monica nodded, still watching Harry warily. Harry smiled awkwardly, but Monica only widened her eyes in fright and began to run.

“Aw, shit,” said Raines.

“What? What happened?”

“Listen, I need to get back. She’s afraid of strangers.” Raines rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving where Monica ran off to.

“Why? Did something happen to her?”

“Don’t assume every orphan has a tragic past worthy of a bloody novel,” said Raines, shooting Harry a look. “That’s rude. She’s _fine_. Just a bit shy.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Okay, sorry.”

Raines shrugged, stepping on his cigarette butt. “Well, catch you later then. Or not.”

“How long have you been working here?” Harry asked before Raines could spin on his heels.

“Huh? Why?”

“Just—have you been in Callington your whole life?”

Raines looked at him for a long time, his expression impassive and didn’t give away anything Harry would like to read. When Raines finally talked, he gave a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Been in this building all my life, in fact.”

“Oh.”

“Wish you good luck finding your boyfriend then,” said Raines, spinning around and waving carelessly at Harry.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Harry, annoyed, though he was a hundred percent sure Raines couldn’t hear his mumble. Sighing, Harry scrubbed at his nape and forced himself not to crack his skull open by banging his head onto the wall. “Are the people with that face always annoying?” he muttered, knowing full well that one of those annoying people was someone he didn’t really find annoying lately.

He was totally, _totally_ fucked up.

**. .**

**. .**

“You look more awful than usual, Potter. Never knew it was possible.”

Harry sat on the carpeted floor, watching Malfoy pacing around in the sunlit, wide hallway—his eyebrows high and his back straight—completely, effortlessly graceful. And that drawl . . . the annoying, lazy tone that grated on Harry’s nerves, and the stare that screamed of disdain . . . those were all Malfoy. Malfoy who tried hard to be composed even when he was on the verge of breaking down, who loved his family and couldn’t kill Dumbledore. Malfoy who looked more alive than Raines did even though he was only a ghost.

“Do you—have cousins or—family in Callington?” Harry asked.

“Callington?” Malfoy paused in his tracks, furrowing his brow. “No, I suppose not, although I can’t really be sure. The Malfoy is an old family, we marry many other old pureblood families, it’s not impossible that someone from a branch of the family lives there.”

“Do the Malfoys never marry Muggles?”

“Why?” asked Malfoy sharply. “Is this a conversation to bring up about how we’re a—”

“No, I’m only curious,” said Harry quickly, and he didn’t really care if his eyes looked like he was pleading. He was too tired, too weary about this whole thing. “I need to know.”

Malfoy studied him, eyes narrowed and hands clasped behind his back. “Even if there was, they’d probably been erased from the family tree.”

“So it’s possible, if—say, you have a Muggle family?”

“Well, isn’t my cousin Nymphadora Tonks enough of a proof for you? And don’t forget, the Malfoys can even have werewolves as family!”

“Tonks is a Black and don’t you dare—”

“My mother is a Black and she married a Malfoy. That’s what a family tree is for, because the main family of Malfoy is extinct, Potter!”

Harry breathed hard, hands clenching on his thighs. “I—I don’t mean to—” He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair. “Fuck this.”

“What the bleeding hell are you talking about?” Now even Malfoy sounded upset. “What’re you trying to tell me?”

“Yesterday—I found someone who looked just like you,” said Harry. “I—just—I mean, he was practically _you_ , only he _wasn’_ t you!”

“What?” Malfoy bent down, forcing Harry to meet his eyes. “What?”

“I thought I could find your body in Callington, but no, it was just another person who looked just like your clone, and—”

“My body is in Callington?”

“No, didn’t you listen to a word I said?” said Harry, desperate. “He was alive, and a Muggle, and he _smoked_ , for fuck’s sake—”

“A Muggle,” Malfoy repeated, his forehead creased and his eyes seemed so far away, as if his mind was now running a mile per second. “Who looked like me.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything because—” Harry paused when he noticed Malfoy’s eyes slowly turning back at him. “Does it mean something . . .?”

Malfoy didn’t answer him for what seemed a very long time, before he straightened up, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps I should tell you something, Potter.”

“What?” asked Harry, suddenly breathless. His heart thumped so hard against his ribcage that it was almost painful.

“This—if what you said is true, then I think I know what that means.” Malfoy looked straight at Harry. “But I need your word not to tell anyone.”

**. .**

**. .**

Harry traced the page—pristine white with a hint of honeysuckle scent—and was sure his eyes were so big now as he read the elegant handwriting on it. The book was thin and beautifully crafted, with a grey cover and a silver ribbon attached to the binding. It looked just like what he could expect for Narcissa Malfoy’s diary, but that wasn’t what took his breath away.

It was the content—the step by step instruction on how to strip one’s magic completely.

“Your mother tried to make you a Muggle,” said Harry, still not believing what he read.

“Or a squib, because apparently, it was the only way to get rid of the Dark Mark.”

“Because the curse—the Dark Mark—only ate magic—”

“—therefore I could be saved if I no longer had magic,” finished Malfoy. “Or that’s what my mother deduced.”

“Isn’t magic a core of wizards and witches? Wouldn’t we die if we didn’t have it anymore, like, like what would happen if I didn’t give your wand back?”

“Of course not. This is different than with my wand, it’s a ritual,” said Malfoy. “It’s invented to save, not to kill.”

“Wow,” Harry said in awe, yet he still wasn’t really sure what to think. “So—so that makes you—”

“That’s the tricky part, Potter,” said Malfoy. “If the ritual succeeded, then my magic should have vanished entirely. But it seems like my mother failed, somehow, and so here I am.”

“You’re Malfoy’s magic . . .”

“And memories, and probably a bit of his soul, too.” Malfoy nodded. “Did this person you found in Callington remember anything about magic?”

“No, he seemed to have forgotten everything—he didn’t have the Dark Mark either.”

Malfoy nodded again. “That’s what I think. My entire life consisted of magic ever since I could remember. If my mother stripped magic completely from my body and tried to make me a Muggle, it’d make me forget everything—and here, I—the magic—have all of Draco Malfoy’s memories.”

“But stripping one’s magic doesn’t have to take the memories, too, does it?”

“Mother probably wanted me to live, Potter,” said Malfoy quietly, gazing at the huge four poster bed that stood coldly in Malfoy’s parents’ equally cold chamber. “Really live.” He laughed bitterly. “Pathetic isn’t it? We, with all of our Pureblood beliefs, in the end have to be Muggles in order to live?”

“But . . .” Harry shook his head, at a loss. “But still—how could your body end up in Callington? And this bloke—he said he’s been in the orphanage all his life!”

“He probably lied,” said Malfoy flatly. “Or he probably didn’t, if what he meant by ‘all his life’ was the short span he lived since he woke up without memories.”

“God, that’s just so . . .” said Harry, shaking his head. “Are you sure this guy is you?”

Malfoy stared at him, chewing his lower lip. “No. This could be another false hope. I wasn’t planning to make anything out of this information, but since you said you met someone who looked like me . . .”

“We should check,” said Harry, advancing himself towards the startled Malfoy. “You can go, can’t you? Let’s see if this bloke really is you. You’ll know yourself, right?”

“I should be able to recognise myself, yes,” said Malfoy, looking uneasy at the short distance left between his face and Harry’s. “I want to see him as well.”

“Good,” said Harry, nodding to himself. “Good, if it’s you, then we might be able to bring you back to life.”

“What?”

“You. Back to life.”

“Potter, if that bloke is me, then I _am_ alive.”

“But he’s _not_ you!”

“That’s the whole point. He needs to not be me, in order to keep on living,” said Malfoy very slowly. “You don’t understand this, do you?”

“No and I don’t want to,” snapped Harry. “Are you really fine with this? That you’ll only be a piece of—magic, memories, soul, whatever? Don’t you want to be the real Malfoy again?”

“Well yes, but if _I’m_ the magic, then the real Draco Malfoy is out there, _alive_ ,” shouted Malfoy. “I was supposed to vanish!”

“But do you really want that?” yelled Harry, grabbing Malfoy’s shoulders, pushing him against the white wall. “Do you really _want_ that?”

Malfoy opened his mouth and closed it again, blinking repeatedly and there was the wind swirling around them. His body was solid in Harry’s hands, cold and rigid and weird, but it was _Malfoy_.

“That bloke is Ian Raines. He’s an apathetic git who looks like he can’t be arsed to comb his hair or have a bloody expression on his face. He isn’t you, he _isn’t_.”

“Potter—”

“We’ll prove if he really has your body, and we’ll find a way to save you. Okay?” said Harry, tightening his grip on Malfoy’s shoulders. “Okay?”

Malfoy stared at him in silence, his lips trembling so slightly. The wind brushed against Harry’s skin gently, as if it was the reflection of Malfoy’s own feelings inside—unsure, helpless, afraid. But in the end he quirked a small smile, calling back the wind into nothingness.

“You’re one to talk about combing hair.”

“At least I try,” said Harry, “and he isn’t me.”

“He’s not.” Malfoy nodded.

“And the way he is now, he’s not you either.”

Malfoy didn’t answer him, and Harry didn’t expect him to. He rubbed his thumbs against Malfoy’s shoulders for a second and then pulled away.

“We’ll find a way,” said Harry more to himself.

**. .**

**. .**

**Four**

The ticking clock was so loud in Hermione’s office. Harry didn’t know what had possessed him that he had obligingly come as he was told, but now he regretted it. No one should challenge Hermione when they knew they were hiding something. Harry drummed his fingers against his thigh, trying to nonchalantly avoid her gaze and failing miserably.

“Harry,” she said from behind her desk, and something told Harry that she was far from calm. “How is your headache?”

Harry studiously watched Hermione’s clock. It was ten minutes fast. Why was it ten minutes fast again? Probably because Hermione hated being late. Yes, that would be it. But the ticking was a little too loud for such a tiny clock. How did one make it stop ticking that loud? Smash it with a Bludger?

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

“The headache?”

“What headache?”

“You know what I mean. The dreams?”

“Oh yeah, they stopped.”

There were about ten ticks before something even louder forced Harry to face Hermione. Looked like she just slammed her hands on the desk.

“They stopped,” said Hermione slowly. “How did they stop?”

“Er, they just kind of . . . did?”

“After more than half a year? They stopped just like that?” There was a warning in Hermione’s voice. “When did that happen?”

“About two or three months ago . . .” Harry shrugged, drumming his thigh faster. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Harry, stop it,” Hermione said sternly.

“Stop what?” Harry blinked innocently.

“This!” said Hermione. “You’re acting bizarrely! First you were on extremely dangerous potions—”

“Oh, bloody—” Harry spluttered, “they’re not _extremely_ dangerous!”

“—and now the dreams just stopped!” Hermione said loudly. “Then you avoided me after you got back from your mission, and I know you were trying to find Malfoy, but now that everyone is in Malfoy’s search party because he’s the last one, you look just . . .” She made vague, frustrated gestures with her hands, “. . . like you don’t care about it anymore!”

“Because I realised it really doesn’t matter!” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “The dreams stopped, you should be happy for me. And I’m in the search party, so don’t say I’m not looking for him!”

“I’m happy, I am,” said Hermione, sounding tired, “but you’re hiding something, I know.”

“Look,” said Harry, “you want me not to act independently about Malfoy and follow Robards’ instructions, so I am. I’m searching for Malfoy with the team, okay?”

“But this whole Malfoy thing is just weird,” said Hermione. “You know Harry, Hannah has done a thorough check of Muggle hospitals just like you told her to, and still no trace. We haven't been able to pick up Malfoy's magical signature anywhere, and we can’t find anything about him on the internet—”

“—magical signature?” Harry perked up. “Is that how the Unspeakables search for him? Using his magical signature?”

“Well yes, he’s a wizard, he’s bound to leave one wherever he goes. It’s basic, Harry. You should have paid more attention in the meetings. The only obvious trace we've got so far is inside the Manor, but that’s normal considering he lived there.”

“Even though the Manor has been stripped of its magic?”

“Yes, Malfoy had lived there for a very long time.”

“Like—like maybe if we checked Hogwarts, then we could find his magical signature there, too? Or mine, or yours?”

Hermione looked at him oddly. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“But my magical signature wasn’t in the . . . the restaurant we visited three months ago?”

“There would have been, but it would be so weak. Which is why Malfoy’s got to be moving frequently so that he doesn’t leave a traceable signature.”

“Okay,” said Harry, sighing inwardly with relief. So long as people thought the magical signatures in the Manor were only some old traces of Malfoy’s magic, the fact that Malfoy’s magic itself lived there would still be safe. And the fact that Ian Raines didn’t have any magic meant the Ministry wouldn't be aware of his existence. Even if Malfoy went somewhere in his ghost form, the Ministry wouldn’t detect his magical signature. Harry should still have time to find a way to bring Malfoy back to life again.

“Okay?” asked Hermione, her expression clearly one of disbelief. “It’s _not_ okay! You’re hiding something, and somehow . . .” she paused to throw him a sharp look. “Somehow I get the feeling that everything is connected.”

Once again, Harry didn’t know whether he should hate or love Hermione for being so smart.

“What? Are you telling me there’s something about Malfoy?” asked Harry, trying hard to sound annoyed. “Not going to think I’m being silly again like in sixth year?”

“Actually, yes, I think you’re being silly, because this is different from sixth year,” Hermione snapped. “What I want to say is, I think you’re obsessed—again—but in a different way. You’re getting better at hiding it, aren’t you, Harry?”

“You just told me I’d lost interest in finding Malfoy, but now you're accusing me of being obsessed?” asked Harry, aghast. “Bloody hell, Hermione.”

She shrugged. “All I’m saying is . . . it’s suspicious. The way you’re acting and everything.”

“Then have it your way. I’m not doing anything I’m not supposed to!”

“Are you being completely honest?”

“Hermione,” Harry half-whined.

“All right. Fine,” said Hermione, her shoulders drooped. “I’ll pretend I haven't noticed anything. But . . .” She reached for Harry’s hand, and he had to awkwardly uncross his arms to hold her hand. “Remember that I—Ron and I—we are your best friends, Harry.”

Harry stared at her. The guilt was growing inside again—stronger and unrelenting. For a moment he considered telling her everything, but . . . would she understand? No—Hermione, let alone Ron, wouldn’t understand. Even Harry himself still didn’t fully understand. But that didn’t matter. It was about doing the right thing, not for other people, but for himself, because—because he had finally stopped hating and wanted to do something. Wasn’t that all that mattered?

“Of course,” said Harry. “I know.”

**. .**

**. .**

“I need the books you confiscated from us, Potter,” said Malfoy. “This isn’t going anywhere. My mother didn’t write down the last step she had to take to complete the ritual, and we need to know what caused her to fail if we want to reverse this whole thing. And there’s still the problem that if I were to go back to my body, the curse would be activated again.”

Harry looked up from where he was sprawling on the sofa, pretending to read Narcissa Malfoy’s diary for the hundredth time. Malfoy was standing forlornly in the middle of the library, playing with the books that were floating around him. “I know, I’ve thought about sneaking up there this Sunday. But what kind of books should I be looking for?”

“Old rituals, old magic, maybe even necromancy.”

“But you’re not dead, why necromancy?”

“Because the idea is kind of similar—we’re going to put my magic, my soul into my body,” said Malfoy, shrugging. “Although I’m fairly sure my mother would have written down everything . . .”

“Fine, I’ll do what I can, but before that . . .” Harry sat up to rest his elbows on his knees. “Let’s confirm what we need to confirm first, okay? It’s been so long and all we did is research.”

Malfoy stopped his gentle, twirling wind and the books dropped to the floor. He looked as if he were taking a deep breath, hands slipping inside his trouser pockets. “Of course. Why do you think I asked you to come today?”

“To meet Raines?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yeah. Better to get this over with. It’s only a matter of whether I really am a ghost or only magic, isn’t it? I believed that I’d been dead for more than six months, what could be worse?”

Harry didn’t believe a single thing Malfoy said, though. How could he, when Malfoy looked far from calm?

“I’ve known you for years, there’s no way I would fail to recognise you.”

“Potter.” Malfoy laughed dryly. “We were not the best of friends in Hogwarts, how could you be so sure?”

“Then how could you recognise me that time when I was captured?” asked Harry, and Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened. “I know you recognised me. You lied for me. Just like your mother lied for you. It’s not that hard to believe, is it, that I’d know you even when you didn’t look like you?”

“There are people who look similar,” said Malfoy. “Ian Raines might not be me.”

“He is you. But he’s _not_ you, because the real you is—is the one who stands before me,” said Harry. “Trust me?”

Malfoy looked pained, torn, and Harry hated that. It made him want to touch, to feel, to make sure Malfoy was all right. To make sure he was there— _alive_.

“It’s too much of you to ask me to trust you,” said Malfoy eventually, a little smile playing on his lips. Harry thought his heart would burst at the rare display. “Guide me to the orphanage.”

“Okay.” Nodding, Harry turned on his feet and extended his hand. “I’ll Apparate us.”

“This is weird,” said Malfoy, seemingly reluctant to place his hand on Harry’s forearm. Harry refused to think about it further, so he Apparated even before Malfoy could readjust his grip around Harry. When he arrived at a secluded corner near the orphanage, however, Harry was alone.

“Malfoy?” he called out, looking everywhere. But the neighbourhood was silent. Harry ran towards the orphanage, beginning to panic. Maybe he had made a mistake—if somehow ghosts, souls, magic, whatever Malfoy was, weren't able to Apparate. Maybe Splinching for non-solid forms meant to disappear forever. He was about to shout louder when a tap on his shoulder made him jump.

“Looking for someone?” said Malfoy—

No, it was Raines. Harry gritted his teeth because he was _almost_ glad to know Malfoy was still there. But it wasn’t him.

“Yeah,” Harry said instead, knowing Raines wouldn’t understand anyway. “He just—disappeared.”

“Maybe he left you while you were daydreaming?” Raines hazarded a guess. “You look like the scatterbrain type.”

“I think that’d be you,” Harry retorted.

“Me? No, I’m just not a caring person,” said Raines with a dismissive wave. “Why are you here by the way?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Is it?” Raines let out that empty laughter again. “I thought you were here because you still think I’m your missing boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” said Harry tightly. “And he’s not you.”

“Really?” Raines shrugged. “I don’t even care,” he said, adjusting his washed out denim jacket. “Oh, the kids are playing football.”

Harry followed Raines’s gaze, seeing past the open gate into the garden. Five boys, who looked like they were about nine or ten years old, were chasing a ball and laughing. Monica and another little girl were sitting on the front stairs.

“Odd sport, football is,” said Raines, grabbing for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. “I hate it.”

Harry snorted. “Because you can’t play?”

“I’ve always felt my feet were made for something better than kicking a stupid round thing on the ground.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Don’t know. Like kicking the ground to fly.”

Harry looked up, startled. Raines seemed undisturbed, casually blowing the smoke and staring at the kids. “Flying?” asked Harry at last.

“Stupid, huh? Who cares, that’s my dream.”

“Your dream is to fly?” Harry asked carefully. “With what?”

“Don’t know. Not a plane, not wings either.” Raines shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Magic,” said Harry, not taking his eyes off Raines. “Maybe you need magic.”

“Bugger, you’re loonier than I am,” said Raines, his lips quirked into a small smile. Harry clenched a fist, because—that smile was Malfoy’s. The one that made his stomach churn and his heart jump around.

“Well, if you’re not here for me . . .” Raines let his words hang, waving nonchalantly at Harry. He shuffled through the gate, joking with the boys and bending down to lift Monica. Until he vanished behind the front door with the kids, Harry could only foolishly watch him in silence.

He probably hated Raines more than he ever hated Malfoy.

“That’s—my body, Potter,” said Malfoy behind him, his voice sounding so close to Harry’s ear. Harry shivered.

“Where were you?” He spun around, doing the best he could to mask the overwhelming relief and the unwelcome flush.

“I think it just took longer for me to reform my . . .” Malfoy waved distractedly towards his own body. “. . . current form.”

“So you saw him? Raines?”

“Yes, that was me. He is me,” said Malfoy, his eyes full of longing as he gazed at the closed door. “I think he needs lessons in how to dress.”

“That’s not important.” Harry would have rolled his eyes if only Malfoy hadn’t looked so sad. “We need to get you back to your body.”

Malfoy stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed together tightly. He remained that way until Harry wanted to snap his fingers just to call Malfoy back to Earth. When Malfoy spoke, it was with a low, soft voice that belied a lot of emotions. “He’s so . . . apathetic. He doesn’t have any personality, does he?”

“No.” Harry couldn’t agree more.

“But what can he do? His memory and basically everything that formed him . . . have disappeared,” said Malfoy. “He’s a new person. He might have picked up his new habits and everything from the people around him.”

“Maybe,” Harry trod carefully, not knowing where this conversation was going.

“But that’s probably for the best. It’s better for him—me . . . Merlin, this is difficult.” Malfoy shook his head. “But it’s better to live anew than be a loathed ex-Death Eater.”

“What?” Harry asked in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s alive, Potter, he doesn’t look like he’s unhappy, and he’s _alive_ ,” said Malfoy, sounding desperate. “He doesn’t need me, because I—I—” Malfoy blinked his eyes, refusing to look at Harry. It might have been his imagination, but Harry thought the way Malfoy blinked and sniffed was more heart-wrenching than even tears would be. “I’m only magic,” said Malfoy, his voice trembling slightly.

“You’re not telling me you’re changing your mind,” said Harry through gritted teeth. “He’s not you, and you can—”

“No, I can’t,” bellowed Malfoy. “Can’t you understand? Without me he’ll stay alive! I’m the curse, there’s no other way!”

“We can still find a way,” shouted Harry. “There’s always a way!”

“Well, maybe you should get this through your thick skull, but not everything in life can go according to your wishes!”

“Why are you suddenly scared?” Harry gripped Malfoy’s shoulders and shook them. “Why?”

Malfoy looked ashen, his mouth pinched and his face so pale it was almost invisible. “If we fail, he’ll die. And I will, too. There will be no Draco Malfoy or Ian Raines. I won’t exist anymore—in any shape or form, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth only to close it again. It was as if a bottomless hole was opening in his stomach, and it was heavy, cold, _painful_. The realisation smacked him in the face, making it hard to breathe. Because—because Malfoy wouldn’t be here if they failed.

Malfoy reached up, his cold knuckles brushing against Harry’s cheek. He stared into Harry’s eyes, and there was something that told Harry that Malfoy realised something, saw something in Harry. Malfoy dropped his hand, a sad, knowing smile on his lips. “Let me go, Potter.”

Before Harry could, however, there was a cold wind and suddenly Malfoy was standing a short distance away from him.

“Perhaps you should learn more about Ian Raines,” said Malfoy. “Perhaps he isn’t that bad.”

“No one is worse than you,” Harry said, attempting a smile to no avail. “But no one is easier to hate than Raines.”

Malfoy laughed. “I thought you hated me. I should be offended that Raines has stolen that privilege.”

“I hated you. Still do,” said Harry. “Will hate you more if you disappear.”

“We can’t let that happen now, can we?” Malfoy said with a smile. A moment later, that smile faded away. He kept his eyes on the empty orphanage garden. “Ian Raines is me, Potter. You’ll come around one day.”

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “No.”

Malfoy merely gazed at him for a while before he shook his head as well. Harry tried to avoid that stare, blinking just to get his bearings again. Yet when he opened his eyes once more, Malfoy had disappeared.

**. .**

**. .**

A week after Malfoy left him, Harry was back in Callington. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Malfoy—not after he was clearly told to learn liking Raines. Hence now he found himself waiting in front of the orphanage gate, unsure of what the hell he was actually _waiting_ for.

Occasionally he could see some kids running around the building, some of them looking at him strangely. But Raines wasn’t there, and Harry had no intention to actually ask for him. He didn’t even want to meet him. Yet he came anyway.

It was nearly dusk when Harry saw the front door open with Monica tugging at Leah’s sweater sleeve. Seeing Harry, Leah frowned. Monica pointed at him, whispering something to Leah. Harry fidgeted on his feet, not knowing what to say in case Leah asked him what he was doing there. As expected, Leah ushered Monica to go inside, and she smiled faintly at Harry afterwards. Harry tried to return the smile, but he could only manage a grimace.

“Are you looking for Ian?” Leah asked when she arrived at the gate.

“Er, I only stopped by because I had things to do around here . . .”

The way Leah raised her eyebrows told Harry that she could see through his lie.

“He’s not coming today, but I see you've noticed,” said Leah. “Today is Leon’s turn.”

Harry recalled that he did indeed see a dark-haired bloke filing inside the orphanage right after he Apparated. “I see,” he said hesitantly. “It’s all right, I’m not really—”

“He doesn’t live very far,” Leah cut in, watching him intently. “I can give you directions if you want.”

Harry opened and closed his mouth, at a loss. “Er . . . is that all right?”

“Yeah, he won’t mind,” said Leah, shrugging. When Harry opened his mouth again to counter, Leah raised her hand. “You have to talk to him.”

“Talk to him about what?” asked Harry, baffled.

“About him, obviously,” Leah stated matter-of-factly. “Now, you see that house with the red car parked in front of it? Take the left turn right after it, and just go straight until you see a blue gate. Ian lives there—room number three.”

“I—okay,” Harry replied uncertainly. “Thanks for the—uh—directions.”

“You’re welcome.” Leah smiled before pausing for a moment. She stared at Harry. “You have to understand that he’s afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of himself. Of the things he doesn’t know,” said Leah softly. “He’s not really that strong.”

“He doesn’t look like he gives a rat’s arse about anything,” said Harry. “He doesn’t look like he needs me to talk to him.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t, but you’ll do it anyway, won't you?” Leah said. “It’s better if he’s the one who tells you everything. It’s just not my place to do that, you know?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry agreed reluctantly. There was a long pause before he sighed and said, “I’ll go then.”

“See that you do.” Leah smiled again. “Tell Ian not to be late tomorrow, will you?”

“Will do.” Harry nodded.

He walked down the pavement until he saw a junction near the red car, taking the left turn and searching for a blue gate. Just as Leah said, it didn’t take him long to find it. Harry stared for a moment, having difficulties believing Malfoy—Raines could live in a place as small and run-down as this.

He slipped through the gate and climbed the short flight of stairs. Room number three was the last one on the left. The door was made out of a thin panel of plywood, and the wall was painted white—although it had peeled off here and there. Harry swallowed, and then knocked.

There was a heavy silence while Harry waited for Raines to open the door. His heart was in his throat, his palms sweating. He didn’t even know what the bloody hell he should talk to Raines about. But every time he remembered the way Malfoy gazed at him, brushing his knuckles against Harry’s cheek . . . it made Harry’s stomach twist unpleasantly. It reminded him too much of the fact that Malfoy was . . .

“Well, well, what have we got here?”

The drawl coming from behind him made Harry jump in expectation. He whirled around hoping to see Malfoy, only to find Raines leaning sideways against the wall, eyeing Harry sceptically. His hands were in his grey trench coat pockets, the white jumper he wore underneath making his throat look paler than usual.

“Hi,” Harry greeted tentatively. “Leah told me . . .”

“Sure, sure. There’s no one else who would tell you my address.” Raines shrugged. He headed to the door, brushing against Harry’s right shoulder in the process. “Want to come in?” he asked, unlocking the door.

“Yeah, thanks.” Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the invitation, following Raines’ lead inside. He took a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness, and was awed by what he saw.

“Feel free to sit anywhere you like,” said Raines, turning on the lamp. The yellow light made everything clearer. Harry walked slowly across the narrow hallway, all the while taking in his surroundings.

It wasn’t empty or dirty like one would think from seeing the front door. The furniture was old but not bespoke as at Malfoy Manor, though it was actually nice. It made Harry think of ‘home’, even though neither Grimmauld Place nor Hogwarts—let alone Privet Drive—had the same style. It was just like the home he had always envisioned, the one he thought every family should have. A pair of warm brown sofas, with a beige rug placed near the hearth. Some handmade cards were pinned on the white board above the hearth—no doubt presents from the orphan children. There was a photograph displayed on top of a small table that separated the living room and the kitchen. Harry walked towards it.

“You’re not here,” Harry pointed out, examining the photograph closely. It showed Leah and the children in front of the orphanage building, smiling widely. Two other young blokes were there—Leon was one of them, Harry guessed. An old man with round belly that reminded Harry of Slughorn was on his knees, laughing and hugging two little girls.

“I wasn’t there when it was taken.”

“But you said you’ve been in the orphanage all your life.”

“Well, it’s true,” said Raines. Harry looked up, finding Raines’ eyes trained on him. “You know that’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

Raines laughed without humour, throwing himself onto one of the sofas. He seemed to remember about his coat, so he grumbled, wriggling himself out of the thick material. “Come now, Harry Potter. Don’t pretend you don't think of me as that boyfriend of yours,” he said, hooking his coat over the back of the sofa.

“How many times do I have to say that he’s not my boyfriend?”

“The man you like then.”

Harry stared, his heart sounding noisy in his ears. “What do you know?”

“What do I know?” Raines twirled his forefinger in the air lazily. “What I do know is that I woke up nine months ago without any memories. That I almost died because apparently I didn’t bloody know anything—even the simplest thing. I didn’t even know how to turn the hot and cold taps on. Odd, don’t you think?” Raines searched Harry’s eyes, waiting for something Harry didn’t know. He laughed wryly. “Of course you don’t think that’s odd. I might be a fucking noble for all I know, not knowing how to cook or sweep the floor.”

“You’re—” Harry licked his lips, uncertain of what he should say. “What happened then?” he settled with that in the end.

“I collapsed from hunger.” Raines shrugged. “It was near the orphanage, so I was lucky. The head of the orphanage—that is Old Man William—took me in. He even let me use this flat.”

“Have you learnt everything then? You can cook now?” asked Harry, even though the thing he wanted to ask wasn’t anywhere near that question.

“No, I eat at the orphanage four times a week, and I work part time three times a week in a café. So I eat there, too.”

“You’re working in a café . . .” Harry couldn’t quite hide his disbelief. Somehow the image of the Malfoy he knew was slipping away faster and faster. Raines was not Malfoy despite the fact that sometimes Harry could still see and hear the old Malfoy in him. But even those little things were going to vanish if Harry kept on talking with this new person. And Harry hated that.

“Tell me, Harry Potter,” Raines said slowly. “Who am I?”

Harry remained passive, couldn’t even blink his eyes.

“Who are you?” Raines continued, “What are you to me?”

“You’re—I—” Harry stuttered, taking a step back and sensing a knot twisting where his heart should be. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “We were schoolmates.”

But _God_ , that sounded so wrong. He never knew this person. Never.

“Schoolmates? Is that all?” asked Raines, incredulous. “Where was our school then?”

“It was in—in—Scotland,” Harry managed to say before he shook his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is?” asked Raines, his voice raised an octave higher. “I’m asking you about my past, and you’re clearly _attached_ to my past. What’s so ridiculous?”

“It’s ridiculous because you’re not him,” said Harry tightly. “No matter what you do, you’re still not him.”

“Then what do you want from me?” shouted Raines, standing up and marching towards Harry. “I don’t remember a fucking thing, what do you expect from me?”

“Who said I was expecting anything from you?”

Raines gripped the collar of Harry’s coat, nearly suffocating him. They glared at each other, Harry refused to back down even when his lungs started to hurt from the lack of oxygen. Eventually Raines released him, causing Harry to stumble backward and cough.

“What are you doing here? Go on then. Leave. You know where the door is,” said Raines spitefully.

Harry shot him another seething glare, and wasted no time in leaving the flat. It was only when he was already walking furiously down the pavement, red leaves crunching beneath his trainers, that Harry admitted he was being unfair to Raines. But he didn’t want to be fair. Why should he? He was sick of being a hero, so sick of always having to play the right card for the world’s convenience.

Yet why was being selfish so painful? 

**. .**

**. .**

Harry stood before the main bedchamber of Malfoy Manor, where he knew for sure Malfoy was brooding. It had been like that for months ever since he found out about his mother’s diary—Harry doubted it would change only because he hadn’t come here for almost a month.

“Don’t stand there like an idiot, Potter, just come in,” Malfoy's voice came from behind the door, sounding so far away. Harry sighed in resignation. He pulled himself together and turned the doorknob.

“Hi,” he said uneasily.

“Well, hello there,” drawled Malfoy. “What brings the Golden Boy to our humble Manor?”

“Stop it, Malfoy.” Harry scowled. Malfoy eyed him sceptically from where he was perched on the bed.

“I thought you had stopped coming here for good,” said Malfoy nonchalantly, although his posture was stiffer than usual. “Busy saving the world maybe.”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Harry rolled his eyes for show, ambling along the carpeted floor and stopping next to Malfoy. He flopped down on the bed ungracefully. “Did you do anything at all while I wasn’t here?”

“Of course, who do you think I am?” Malfoy feigned a hurtful look. “I did my best to haunt this Manor.”

“Ha-ha, how productive of you,” said Harry sarcastically.

Malfoy shrugged his shoulders and they fell into a long silence. Harry glanced at him sideways, noting all the little things he never thought as important before. The way Malfoy’s hair curled at the nape, and how his pores were more visible around his upper cheeks. Harry wanted to run his fingers there, to sense if his skin was as smooth as it looked. The way Malfoy’s lips pouted slightly, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as though he could still swallow—or maybe he could, Harry never asked. Harry sighed in frustration when he realised what he was doing.

“Do you like children?” he asked out of nowhere.

“Children?” asked Malfoy, sounding puzzled. “Not really, I don’t know what to do with them. Why?”

Harry took a moment before he blurted out in one breath, “Raines likes them.”

Harry could feel Malfoy’s gaze roaming on his right cheek, but he refused to stare back. “I see,” said Malfoy eventually.

“There’s this girl—Monica. I think he likes her the most. He was kind of mad at me when I asked if something had happened to her. He said not all orphans had tragic pasts.” Harry laughed. “I didn’t realise that—I shamelessly assumed all of them had pasts like me.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, so Harry continued, “You know, he snapped at me when I said he couldn’t be you no matter what he did.”

“You told him about me?”

“No, but he guessed.” Harry took a shuddering breath, squeezing his hands together. “He isn’t as apathetic as I thought he was.”

“You understand about him now?” asked Malfoy, more softly than Harry would have liked. Harry nodded reluctantly.

“Not that I want to understand him. But he might not be as happy as he looked.”

“Potter.” Malfoy laughed, shaking his head. “You’re being ludicrous. He’ll be happier this way, trust me.”

“Because he’s alive? Because he doesn’t have the Dark Mark?” Harry snapped, facing Malfoy. Their foreheads almost bumped together. “Because he’s not Draco Malfoy?” Harry’s voice turned softer, sadder. He shifted his eyes to watch Malfoy’s lips.

“Because—” Malfoy swiped his tongue over his lips, and although there wasn’t any saliva that could make them wet, Harry found himself transfixed by the view. “Potter—”

“I can learn to accept him if you want me to,” Harry relented, slowly lifting his gaze to rest on Malfoy’s eyes. Malfoy compressed his lips. “But you’re different. Don’t stop me from trying to—”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Malfoy harshly, pushing Harry’s shoulders away. He rose to his feet, looking anywhere but at Harry. “It’s nice to know that you’ve made friends with Raines. Maybe you could start brushing your hair together.”

“It’s not that I made friends with him,” Harry retorted, annoyed. “I said I could _learn_ to accept him.”

“Well, you needn’t accept him, do you?” snapped Malfoy. “Why should you?”

“Because _you_ want me to acknowledge him as you! Don’t you understand, I can’t see him as you, but I’ll try to—”

“It’s not what _I_ want,” shouted Malfoy. When Harry only glared at him in return, his breathing ragged, Malfoy ran his fingers through his transparent fringe. “That’s not what I meant,” he finally said, this time more softly, but his voice layered with emotion. “It’s not important what I want. The question is, why do you feel like you should do it for me?”

“I just want to,” Harry replied stubbornly.

“Well, why?”

“Just because.” Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I felt like—I felt like shit when I told Raines he couldn’t be you.”

“Guilt, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. “How very noble of you. As expected from the Golden Boy.”

“It has nothing to do with it,” said Harry, more calmly than he suspected he would be. “And I could try accepting him as Raines, that’s all. A new person, just like you said. As long as you’re still here . . .”

“What?” Malfoy widened his eyes in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“As long as you’re still here, in this Manor, you’re still Draco Malfoy,” finished Harry.

“Potter, get a grip,” Malfoy groaned, sounding completely exasperated. “I’m not human, you should—I don’t know, make friends with _humans_!”

“You know I’ve never been good at following orders.”

“That’s not an order!”

“So was that a request?” Harry stared straight into Malfoy’s panicked eyes. “I can decline then.”

“Merlin!” Malfoy threw his arms in the air exaggeratedly. “Hopeless. _Hopeless._ ”

“Whatever you say, Malfoy. Whatever you say,” said Harry, shrugging. They glared at each other for a long, heavy minute, before Malfoy closed his eyes in defeat.

“You’ll understand someday that I’m not the Draco Malfoy you want.”

Harry didn’t answer, but, to be honest, he had wanted to snort at that. However, Malfoy’s tone when he spoke again pulled Harry back from his thoughts.

“Promise me you’ll try this, Potter. I don’t care if you only see him as Ian Raines. I don’t care if that means you don’t treat him like you treat me. Just—just try to like him.”

Harry stared. “Er . . . why should I like him?”

“Because you can’t afford to like _me_ ,” said Malfoy sharply, his tone and expression leaving no room for argument. Harry opened his mouth, at a loss for words.

“ _What_?”

“Oh, shut it, I’m not daft. I can see it all over your face.”

“But—”

“Just do it. Promise.”

“Malfoy, I—”

“Potter,” said Malfoy, holding Harry’s gaze. “Promise me.”

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to push Malfoy against the wall and beat the shit out of him. He needed to release all of this pent-up frustration, otherwise he would explode. But on top of it all, he needed to hold Malfoy, telling him that no, Harry wouldn’t change his mind, and yes, Harry would always choose Malfoy over Raines. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t human, it didn’t matter at all.

But instead, watching Malfoy watch him with those eyes, Harry caved in. “Yeah, okay. Promise.” Because he couldn’t deny that Malfoy was also right.

“Good.” Malfoy straightened even more, as though it was still possible for him to appear more formal. He sent a small smile, clearly a forced one that made Harry long to kiss it away. “Then I’m going to—have a walk.” He seemed to have another thought and added, “Are you coming?”

“To the garden? Watching the balding trees?”

“Balding trees have their own beauty, don’t be a prat, Potter,” Malfoy chided. He vanished after saying, “Meet you there.”

Harry put his head in his hands, sighing in frustration. Malfoy knew Harry liked him, and wasn’t keen on the idea. But that was so unfair—to ask him to like Raines . . .

“I’m so, _so_ , fucked up,” he groaned, falling backwards onto the bed. It creaked a little, the soft mattress wobbling beneath him. The bed must have cost a fortune—the Malfoys only used the finest after all, just as Malfoy always put it. Harry let his thoughts wander incoherently while the mattress lulled him in gentle waves, until a soft ‘thud’ jerked his attention back to Earth. He sat straight back, furrowing his brow.

Standing up, his Auror instinct screamed at him. Not that he could trust that instinct after repeatedly messing up missions, and not that his instinct was any better in the war. Hating Snape and trusting the fake Moody were only a few examples that he was pants at relying on instincts. Like Snape had always said, Harry’s arrogance blinded him. But Harry had learnt a lot, and not the easy way. And besides, it wouldn’t hurt to check where the sound came from, right? The worst that could happen was only—well, a furious Malfoy who would wait too long in the garden.

With that thought, Harry took out his wand and muttered a spell. If anything had moved in the last three minutes, it would be engulfed in a blue light. Sweeping his gaze over the room, the only things basked in blue light were the bed and Harry. Oh, but there was a part where the light was uneven, as if there was something extra on the carpet, beneath the bed’s headboard. Harry crept towards it, crouching and peeking through the crack between the back of the bed and the wall. And yes, there was indeed _something_. Harry whispered _Lumos._

It was square-shaped, like a book, bundled in a white fabric. It seemed that it was stuck there, at the back of the bed with a Sticking Charm. Checking for a curse, Harry wished he had asked Hermione to teach him a few more advanced spells. But so far there were no signs of curses, thus Harry began to extract it from the bed. He Levitated it carefully, noting the rose embroidery on the fabric. Harry was sure it was Narcissa Malfoy’s.

He flicked his wand and the fabric unveiled a wooden box at once. It had something intricate with a big letter M crafted on the lid—Harry guessed it was the Malfoy family crest. “ _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ ,” Harry read the smaller letters that were placed below the big M, and was surprised to find the box glowing. He quickly tried to unlock it with _Alohomora_ and more intermediate unlocking charms, but nothing happened. Harry had nearly given up, when he remembered that the box responded to his voice earlier.

“Password protected?” Harry wanted to groan. How could he guess Mrs Malfoy’s password when he barely knew her?

“Rose,” Harry tried, simply because it was the flower embroidered on the white fabric. And judging from the Malfoy’s garden and her diary’s scent, Mrs Malfoy seemed to be fond of flowers. “Honeysuckle. Lily. Erm . . . Narcissa.” Nothing happened—Harry racked his brain for more flower names, but he was blank. “Daisy. Jasmine . . . oh fuck.”

Sighing, Harry made a move to cover the box with the fabric again. Maybe he should just take it home and find a book that had a complete list of flower names. However, he paused and thought—if it was something Mrs Malfoy loved, there must be no other thing more suitable than this. He sat back, watching the green glow around the box. “Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he whispered. A soft click echoed in the air.

Harry wanted to cheer in accomplishment, but he bit his lower lip instead. Rushing to open the lid, Harry found inside a folded map, a romance novel and a sheet of paper. He reached for the paper and frowned. It was the torn page of Mrs Malfoy’s diary. Straightening its surface, curiosity ate him up. Its content, however, made his stomach lurch in protest.

“Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh bloody fuck.” Harry put a hand over his mouth, certain that the colour must have fled from his face. “Malfoy . . .” he said shakily. This couldn’t be—but Mrs Malfoy had proven that she had no qualm in doing something similar before. But if Malfoy knew—

Putting it back inside the box, Harry swallowed the bile forming in his throat and shut his eyes for a moment. He willed his heartbeat to slow down and the food to stay in his stomach. Opening his eyes again, he reached for the map.

It looked like an ordinary map of Great Britain, but on a closer inspection, Harry could see glints of green on some cities. Harry skimmed all the green marked cities and his eyes fell on Callington, marked with blue. It was the same blue mark he had seen in the last illegal drugs case he had with Ron. But what was the similarity between Callington and the other cities? Why were they marked, and why did Mrs Malfoy choose Callington out of the others?

Deciding he would need time—and maybe help—to solve that one, Harry shoved it back to the box and eyed the romance novel. That one was the weirdest thing in the box. Harry resolved that there would be nothing wrong in checking it, too, later. He set it back inside the box and worked on sealing it again. He shrunk the bundle, and then hid it inside his robe pocket. At the same time Malfoy flew through the door, scowling.

“What’s taking you so long, Potter?”

Harry quickly straightened up, praying that his expression would be blank enough not to arouse Malfoy's suspicion. “I was—er—a bit light-headed,” he lied.

Malfoy studied him for what seemed a very long minute. “You do look a little pale,” he conceded at last.

“Yeah, but I’m fine now.” Harry quickly assured him, pressing his fingers on top of his robe pocket nervously. “Let’s go to the garden.”

“If you think—” Malfoy hesitated. “. . . it isn’t because of what I said, is it?”

“What—oh, no,” said Harry, shaking his head a little bit too fast. “I was just . . .” Harry let it hang, staring at Malfoy’s worried face. “Hey, come on.”

Malfoy shrugged, his eyes never leaving Harry. “Right.”

“Great,” said Harry.

Before Malfoy could say anything in answer, Harry brushed past him, opening the door. When he turned back again, Malfoy had already disappeared.

**. .**

**.** **.**

_Story continues in Chapter Two._


	2. Part 2

**PART II**

  
Cover Design by Winter_June

**Five**

When Harry rushed out of the green flame, it was to the sight of Ginny snogging the life out of a brown-haired bloke, on a sofa, naked. Harry stumbled to a stop, horrified. “Er.”

“Harry!” Ginny’s eyes widened comically, while the bloke under her tried futilely to cover her body with a cushion. “Couldn’t you Firecall first?” Ginny’s voice was full of disapproval. “Oh, stop it, Neil, it’s _Harry_ ,” she said with a roll of her eyes as if Harry’s name was enough of a reason for Neil to stop his attempt. Weirdly, it was.

“I can—um—come back later,” Harry offered.

“Nonsense, I need to go anyway, got a lecture at the university,” said the bloke—Neil—quickly. He buttoned up his green, wrinkled shirt, offering Harry a wide grin. “Harry Potter, what an odd way to meet.”

“Nice to meet . . . you,” said Harry sheepishly. “Um, I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Neil waved him off, pecking Ginny on the lips. Ginny, who was fumbling with her pyjamas, still didn’t look pleased. “I’ll owl you later.”

“Right,” said Ginny flatly.

Neil grinned at Harry, showing off a dimple in his left cheek and attractive crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His blue eyes reminded Harry of Ron. “See you around, Harry,” said Neil before he strode towards the Floo. He mumbled something at the green flame and disappeared a second later. Harry raised his eyebrows upon Ginny’s glare.

“So. Neil,” said Harry. “Your boss, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Neil, my boss, got a problem?” snapped Ginny.

“What? No!” Harry denied straight away. It was a bit weird indeed, seeing his ex-girlfriend with her boss, but—Harry was in no position to say anything, was he? Not when he himself had been caught snogging a bloke at a club by none other than Rita Skeeter and was plastered all over the Daily Prophet’s front page. And oh, let’s not forget the fact that Harry was now besotted by a ghost-like being. “Er, anyway. I’m not here to talk about that.”

“You’d better not,” said Ginny brusquely. She rolled her eyes when Harry merely messed his hair awkwardly in response. “Fine, let’s talk over tea.”

She didn’t wait for Harry’s answer, spinning on her heels and traversing the short walk to the kitchen.

“I should set up the Floo so people can’t come without my approval. Just imagine what'd happen if one of my brothers was the one who saw that,” Ginny said, cringing at her own words. “Merlin help me.”

“I think that’s the first thing you should have done when you decided to rent a flat for privacy,” Harry said, remembering his own heavily protected Floo in Grimmauld Place.

“Yeah, I should have.” Ginny let out a long, tired sigh. She swished her wand and a tea pot and its cups appeared on the dining table. She must have learnt that spell only recently, for Harry had never seen her do that when they lived together. “Now, what do you want to talk about?” she asked after settling on a chair next to the table.

“Right, I really have to ask you something,” said Harry, hurrying to grab the map he got from Mrs Malfoy’s secret box out of his robe pocket. He unfolded and set it in front of Ginny. “Do you understand what’s in those marked places?”

Ginny scooted the map nearer to her and squinted. “Harberton, Malborough, Modbury, Plymstock . . . hmm, wait, Callington?”

“Yeah, and it’s the only one with the blue colour.”

“Hmm?” Ginny tilted her head to the side, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Harry, that blue mark is what Neil usually uses in order to Portkey us to secret locations.”

“What?” Harry’s heart rate increased. “It’s a Portkey?”

“Not exactly, but it works like a Portkey. It’s a difficult spell, only a few people in our field know how to use it. But it can connect you to a location if done right, and it doesn’t need to be registered at the Ministry, and it can’t be tracked like Apparition can. Sometimes Neil has to use this spell if he doesn’t want to get caught while inspecting a site.” Ginny paused, studying the other marked places. “The green marks don’t mean anything but for—well, marks.”

“How does the spell work?”

“Just mark the map like this, and then repeat the incantation to whoever you want to Portkey, including yourself. It requires a great deal of concentration, or else you’ll end up somewhere you don’t want to be,” explained Ginny. “Because, see, the map isn’t detailed. It’s easier if you have a more detailed map, but that’d enable other people to find you easily—which you don’t want to happen when you’re sneaking into somewhere forbidden.”

“I see, that makes sense,” said Harry, remembering the escaping drug dealer who remained untraceable. “Do you know what’s in those places and what’s in Callington that’s not in the other places?”

“Callington has Malfoy,” said Ginny, narrowing her eyes. “It’s about what I told you before, right? You did find Malfoy there, didn't you?”

“Ginny!”

“Why?” asked Ginny. “You owe me at least an explanation!”

Harry bit the inside of his lower lip, unsure of what he should say and what he shouldn’t. But Ginny was right—he should tell her if he wanted her help. “I didn’t find Malfoy in Callington. It was a different person, namely Ian Raines.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped at the revelation. “What? No, I’m sure he’s Malfoy!”

“Malfoy wouldn't wear those off-the-peg outfits,” Harry pointed out.

“He did seem a bit . . . wild . . . but that only makes sense. He’s a fugitive!”

“He’s not,” said Harry. “We’re only searching for him so we can help him escape Voldemort’s curse.”

“Then why are you asking about Callington now?”

“Because it has something to do with the real Malfoy,” said Harry reluctantly. Ginny stared back at him with barely concealed suspicion.

“Harry, you do realise that you’re making no sense here—”

“I can explain, but not right now, Ginny. Please?”

Ginny opened her mouth for several seconds, looking like she was about to say something, but thought better of it. In the end, she relented, “Fine, but you still owe me an explanation.”

“After everything’s finished. I promise,” said Harry.

Ginny sighed, scratching her head. “Yeah, all right, Harry. Anyway, speaking of Malfoy . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence, instead sucking her left inner cheek in thought. “Yes, that’s it, I think I know what’s in those places.”

“Really?”

“ _Accio Getting to Know Old Wizarding Families_ ,” said Ginny. A moment later a thick, black covered tome was in Ginny’s hands. “Here, there’s a chapter about the Malfoys.” She flicked through the pages, while Harry tried to read over her shoulder. “There. This is the part where they describe the Malfoys’ properties through generations.”

“Longdown, Modbury, Harberton, Malborough, Plymstock . . .” read Harry, widening his eyes. “So those are the places where the Malfoys built their other houses?”

“Well, not always houses. There are also prisons and quarantines for squibs, werewolves, criminals, war prisoners or family members that brought shame to the name—oh, please don’t look like that, Harry. All old families had them, they were built when the situation was very different compared to now. I doubt the families still use them, they’re usually so heavily warded that even the family heir has to go through certain rituals if they want to be accepted into the wards.”

“Do the Weasleys have them, too, then?” Harry asked cynically.

Ginny snorted. “Even if we did, we probably have sold them all ages ago.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “It’s better not to have them anyway.”

“Yes, of course. But that’s not really the point. What we should be concerned about is that Callington isn’t listed here.”

“It’s not?” Harry asked, surprised.

“So it’s not a question of what’s in Callington that’s not in other places—but what’s in other places that’s not in Callington.”

“What then?” Harry wanted to tear his hair out in frustration.

“But . . .” Ginny tapped her lips with the tip of her wand, thinking. “St Dominic is near to Callington.”

“What?”

“Here.” Ginny pointed at the map, where a small dot was named St Dominic. “There’s a property of the Malfoys in this place.” She checked the information on the book and nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, apparently this one used to be a place where the Malfoys’ squibs lived in the nineteenth century.”

“So they were exiled there,” said Harry in disgust.

“Yes, and so I was thinking . . . what if whoever used this Portkey spell originally wanted to mark St Dominic but made a mistake and marked Callington instead? They’re really close in this map.”

“A clumsy mistake, it’s unlikely for—” Harry paused, his mind starting to catch up.

Was it really unlikely for Mrs Malfoy to make that small mistake? She was forced to do everything in secret while trying to cure her son and facing Aurors every day. It was possible that she was in a hurry when she hid the map and had to perform the ritual. After all, it made sense if she had chosen St Dominic for the _new_ Malfoy. If it was used by the Malfoys’ squibs, there must have been things that would help Malfoy survive when he woke up. Perhaps she had even prepared everything for her spoilt son there. Alas, Malfoy had ended up in Callington instead, and nearly died of starvation.

“Ginny, you’re brilliant,” said Harry, pleased that at least one more mystery about Malfoy and Raines had been solved. Not that Harry was sure his hypothesis was correct, but at least it rang the truest so far.

“I’m surprised you didn’t realise it sooner,” said Ginny, a smirk forming on her lips.

But Harry couldn’t care less—his mind was already trying to figure out what he should do next. He knew the complete steps to perform the ritual after his discovery of Mrs Malfoy’s box. Now he only had to find out how to reverse it. But if he did, Malfoy’s Dark Mark would start to react again and that would be the end. But he couldn’t leave it like this, because Malfoy was—

_Potter, promise me._

Harry gritted his teeth, trying to block out Malfoy’s voice from replaying again and again in his head and failing.

“Harry?”

Harry took a shuddering breath, biting his lip. Ginny studied him closely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked. “Is it Malfoy? Is it that bloke in Callington? Is it . . . someone else?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want an honest answer?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You look miserable. Not just miserable, actually. You look like you’re in love _and_ miserable.”

“I’m not in love,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“I know you more than you know yourself then.” Ginny shrugged. “Why the denial?”

‘Because I can’t be in love with him’ was already on the tip of his tongue, but instead he simply said, “I’m just not. Just leave it.” Ginny seemed to disagree, though she didn't voice it. Harry took the map from under her hand and nodded briefly. “Thank you, Gin, you have no idea—”

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t do it for free anyway. I was bored, but now I can look forward to the interesting story you owe me.” Ginny flashed a knowing grin. Harry couldn’t help but snort a laugh.

“Sure, I still thank you, though,” said Harry before he left.

**. .**

**. .**

Harry was nearly asleep when someone nudged his leg. He jerked up, blinking the blur away from his eyes. Raines was staring down at him, his trainer still attached to Harry’s calf.

“Why are you sleeping here?”

Harry took a moment to organise his befuddled mind, taking in his surroundings. He was sitting on the stairs that led towards Raines’ flat, sagging against the cracking wall. “Um,” he said, embarrassed. “I was waiting for you.”

“Really, wow, I never could have guessed,” said Raines sarcastically. He pulled out his key from inside his pocket and walked past Harry. “After your last stunt, I don’t know why I should invite you in again.”

Harry stood up, looking away. “You don’t have to, but . . .”

“But I’ll still do, anyway,” finished Raines. He opened the door and signalled Harry to come inside with a jerk of his chin. Harry followed.

“Thanks.”

Raines closed the door and turned the lamp on. Harry shuffled towards the sofa, not bothering to take his coat off. Raines shrugged his own coat off, hanging it at the door.

“Harry Potter,” he said, half-throwing himself to sit beside Harry. “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” repeated Raines.

“I just want to—know you.”

“Ah, you want to know me because I can never be your boyfriend from the past.”

“Look.” Harry sighed. “I’m really sorry, I was so confused last time.”

“I know,” said Raines, grabbing for a cigarette and a lighter. “What made you think I wasn’t as confused, if not more?”

“That’s why I’m _so_ sorry.”

“What’s done is done, I guess,” Raines said, shrugging. He offered a cigarette to Harry, but Harry shook his head. Raines shrugged again and began taking a long drag. “I’ve given up on searching about my past anyway.”

“I can . . .” Harry paused to take a deep breath. “I can tell you things, but not too detailed. I can’t.”

“Like what?”

“That we were . . . in the same school from when we were eleven. And that we hated each other,” said Harry. “You were a pointy git and I couldn’t stand you.”

“Let’s see.” Raines pretended to be deep in thought. “If I was a pointy git, then you were a specky git who pranced around the school like you owned it?”

Harry spluttered. That _almost_ sounded like Malfoy.

“Don’t get all worked up just yet, I haven’t remembered anything. It’s just easy to imagine you like that with all the strutting you did in the orphanage and around my flat,” said Raines with a grin. “What, did I nail it?”

“No.” Harry scowled. “It’s just he used to say the same thing.”

“Bingo.” Raines took a long, satisfied drag of his cigarette. “Anything else you can tell me?”

Harry watched him blowing out the smoke, watching the lips curled around the cigarette and the slim fingers holding it loosely. His hair seemed lighter under the yellow lamp, messy but attractive at the same time. His pores were visible around his high cheekbones, exactly like Malfoy’s. Raines’ eyes slid towards him, light grey and clear just like how he remembered them, but lacking the shadow and anguish that hid beneath during the war. It was all so real and solid and Harry didn’t have to squint to get a better look because those eyes weren’t transparent like the current Malfoy’s.

“Raines,” Harry called out, startled at his own voice when he realised that it was his first time calling him by name. “Raines.”

“Yes, Harry Potter,” said Raines, dipping his head a little to look at Harry more closely. “What is it?”

“I can,” said Harry, licking his lips, “I can tell you things—but you have to believe them.”

“Things like . . . ?”

“Like—magic.”

Raines raised an eyebrow, looking askance. “Like pulling a bunny out of a hat? Or some card tricks?”

“No. Like flying on a broom.”

Raines studied him even closer, his expression unreadable and Harry wondered if he should draw back a little. But Raines laughed suddenly, clutching at his stomach, forehead nearly touching Harry’s shoulder. The scent of Muggle soap Harry didn’t remember the brand of wafted, as Raines shook, his fringe lightly caressing Harry’s neck. “Oh my God, Harry Potter,” said Raines, still laughing. It took Harry a moment to realise that it wasn’t a real laugh. “You’re mocking my dream.”

“What—”

“I think,” said Raines, looking straight into Harry’s eyes. “You should go home now.”

“I wasn’t mocking you! I told you, you have to believe—”

“O—kay.” Raines rolled his eyes. “You not wanting me to replace your precious man is one thing, but you don’t have to rub it in my face, you know.”

“Merlin, can’t you just listen to me?” Harry resisted the impulse to shout. “If you want to know about your past, then you must accept magic, because you were a wiz—”

The lips that were moving on his own made him swallow the rest of the words. Raines hands were on Harry’s shoulders, gripping so tight they started to hurt. His teeth scraped at Harry’s lower lip, his tongue teasing alternately. Harry could only stared blankly at the wall behind Raines’ shoulder, his jaw slack and arms limp on his lap.

“I can’t take it any longer,” said Raines, louder than a whisper but softer than he ever talked before. He pushed Harry gently, a bitter smile on his lips. “You can’t accept me. Don’t force yourself.”

Harry couldn’t say anything. How could he?

“Leave. Please,” said Raines as he straightened up on his seat, finding the wall across from him fascinating. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers squeezing one another. Harry knew they were trembling, but it was the way Raines tried hard not to look at Harry, the way he told Harry with a steady voice, “Please,” that made Harry’s face hot and his eyes prickle.

The way Raines and Malfoy both tried to cope in their own unique way. The way they both kept reminding Harry how utterly stupid and selfish he was. Harry shut his eyes for a moment, trying to breathe and just _breathe_.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so . . .”

Raines didn’t respond, nor did Harry wait for him to say anything. Harry just left, not even remembering if he had waited until he was in an out-of-the way spot before Apparating.

By the time Harry regained control over his own emotions, he was already standing in front of Malfoy. The curtains in Malfoy’s parents’ chamber were only half-drawn, giving way to the afternoon sun to shower Malfoy’s form in translucent golden light. Harry squinted, trying to make out all the lines and angles—because this was Malfoy. This was the person he wanted to see always. Always.

“I want you,” said Harry. “I want you like—like I never . . .”

“Potter—”

“I hated you, and I still do, but I _want_ you.”

“Potter, did something happen?”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead he pulled Malfoy, crushing their lips together. It was cold, and tingly, and weird because it was like kissing a stone with an ever present breeze caressing the skin of his lips. Yet Harry pushed harder, wondering if it was possible to taste Malfoy’s tongue. Before it could happen, however, Malfoy stopped him. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh either. Malfoy pushed at Harry’s chest, his eyes questioning but his lips remaining closed.

“I can’t,” Harry said in response. “I tried. I promise, I tried.”

“What do you want then?” asked Malfoy softly.

“You,” said Harry. “Just you.”

Malfoy caressed his knuckles over Harry’s cheek, his eyes following the trace of his fingers. Harry knew it should be cold, but the thrills that ran through his veins and his heartbeats that sounded so loud made him warm all over.

“All right,” said Malfoy eventually. He kissed Harry, still icy but slower. “Come to bed.”

Harry opened his mouth wordlessly. Nonetheless he followed Malfoy’s lead, self-consciously removing his coat. “Can you—”

“I’m magic, Potter. Not a ghost.”

“Okay,” said Harry, not taking his eyes off him, as Malfoy began stripping on the bed. The clothes shimmered and disappeared once his hands dropped them. The trail of a scar on Malfoy’s chest looked both translucent and silvery. Harry forced himself not to tear his eyes away from the reminder of his past stupidity.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Malfoy. He removed the last piece of his clothing and smirked. Harry swallowed, clumsily starting to undo his shirt and jeans. When he climbed onto the bed, he knew somewhere inside his mind he was screaming to stop, knew Malfoy must be planning something, for there was no way it could be _this_ easy. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to care—not right now.

Malfoy lay back, pulling Harry with him. He let Harry stroke his collarbone, kissing his neck and earlobe. “Potter, touch me. More.”

Harry spread his hands over Malfoy’s chest, noting the way the white sheet beneath made Malfoy’s skin look terribly pale. But no, it didn’t matter because it was Malfoy. It didn’t matter, so Harry continued, running his fingers everywhere he could reach. Malfoy smiled at him, watching Harry's fingers went further south.

As Harry finally touched Malfoy’s cock, it was hard and dry. He could see his own fingers through it. Harry stared, forcing himself not to listen to the voices in his head and just let Malfoy’s fingers in his hair guide him. Closing his eyes, Harry dipped lower and took Malfoy into his mouth.

It was cold. Still cold. And there wasn’t any taste, or any scent. But it was Malfoy. It should be what he wanted, it should feel right. And yet it all felt _wrong_. 

Harry choked, taking it out of his mouth. He blinked and blinked, his face hot as though someone had just slapped him repeatedly. Breathing hard, he wanted desperately to curse the world. Malfoy’s fingers that had clutched at his hair tightly before, were now caressing him, gently steering him to sit.

“Potter,” said Malfoy, and it was all it took for Harry to break down. He buried his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck, letting the cold seep into his skin. He even prayed that the cold would be able to freeze his idiotic brain. He sobbed, knowing the warmth on his cheeks that was in contrast to the rest of his body inside Malfoy’s embrace was tears.

_You’ll understand someday that I’m not the Draco Malfoy you want._

Harry wanted to laugh at himself. Because this time Malfoy was right.

**. .**

**. .**

“Isn’t that exciting?” Hermione’s voice went in and out of Harry’s ears unnoticed. Ron was looking at him funny, as Harry shredded a napkin onto his empty plate. “Harry?”

“Yeah?” Harry answered without looking up. He could picture Hermione’s expression accurately anyway.

“I was just saying that we’ve found the spell to stop the curse from spreading. Aren’t you happy?”

“Why should I?” shrugged Harry. “It’s only temporary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s progress! We’ll find a way to stop it completely soon!”

“I thought you wanted to help Malfoy, mate,” said Ron uneasily.

Harry snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Malfoy’s body was already safe and sound in a Muggle town, and his magic would forever haunt the Manor. What could a single paralysing spell do to make the situation better?

“You’re infuriating,” said Hermione. “You don’t even want to talk to us anymore.”

“Exactly what she said,” Ron agreed. “We know something happened to you.”

“Look, I’m fine, all right? I’m just not in the mood to talk,” said Harry, sighing. He rubbed his eyelids and fixed his glasses again. “It’s almost time, anyway. We’ve got a stakeout, Ron.”

Ron groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“But Luna's still not here,” protested Hermione. “We promised to have lunch together.”

“I’m sorry but you know how testy Robards will get if we’re late,” Harry pointed out.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, something that Harry found aggravating because they seemed to be on good terms only when they wanted to corner him.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” said Hermione gravely.

“Hermione, it’s only a stake—”

“You still have to be careful.” Hermione tutted. “You’ve been so distracted lately, it’s just not right, Harry.”

“It’s not like Robards’ll give us an important case,” said Harry sarcastically.

“As much as it pains me, I think Harry’s right,” Ron agreed miserably. “No important cases for us, aside from hunting down the ferret’s arse, that is.”

“Oh, honestly.” Hermione huffed. “I think you both need to stop whining about that.”

“Easy for you to say, isn’t it? What with working on Level One and all,” retorted Ron. Harry wanted to crack the table with his forehead. This wouldn’t end well—a sulky Ron would rattle on about how selfish Hermione was for only thinking about her job all the time. A snappy Hermione would divert her full attention to Harry and lecture him on every single thing. That would go on and on for a week or worse, a month. Harry didn’t need that _now_ of all times.

“I’m off first. See you on location, Ron,” said Harry quickly, halting what was no doubt a furious comeback from Hermione. He stood up and nearly collided with Luna when he spun around.

“Hello, Harry, did a Crumpeerunky bite you? You don’t look very well.”

“No, Luna, the Crambyhunky didn't think I was tasty enough,” Harry snapped before he could bite his tongue. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he amended, feeling guilty.

“It’s all right, I’m happy enough you want to try to understand Crumpeerunkies. It’s like having a friend to talk to about hobbies,” said Luna, smiling dazedly. Harry still found himself at a loss whenever Luna talked that way even after all these years knowing her.

“Believe me I’d love to talk about hobbies with you,” said Harry uncomfortably. “I just—um. Need to go.”

“It’s fine, Harry. You’d better not let me stop you,” said Luna. “Hello, Hermione, Ron.”

A grunt from Ron and an awkward greeting from Hermione sounded behind him. Harry prayed to whatever deity that they both forgot their impending argument because of Luna. He didn’t bother to glance back, though.

Continuing his walk out of the small Muggle restaurant, Harry paused in his tracks when he thought he saw something glistening from the corner of his eye. He studied the spot, but there wasn’t anything out of place, only a couple of Muggles chatting on the pavement. Shaking his head, he shrugged it off to find an Apparition point.

The stakeout was mostly boring. Harry and Ron were to ambush a group of teenagers who escaped from Hogwarts and thought they could make money by selling handmade lube to Muggles. Unfortunately, their creation was more like glue rather than lube. The victims were mostly young, gay teenagers—those who were still afraid and shy to buy lube in pharmacies or other shops, and chose to trust slightly older teenagers instead.

Their factory was a deserted building on the edge of Muggle London. Harry and Ron hid in the opposite building, waiting for the members of the group to gather. Robards didn’t quite trust Harry and Ron, hence he ordered them to call for reinforcements once the teenagers assembled. But Ron had another idea.

“They’re teenagers, they look like a collection of Dennis Creeveys,” said Ron, peeking through the dusty curtains at the window. “We can take care of them.”

“So we can impress Robards?”

“Why else?”

“Wouldn’t he be more livid if he found out we disobeyed him?” Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“He won’t if we succeed,” said Ron, grinning. “Come on, Harry. We faced Death Eaters. We can’t lose against a group of kids. This is our only chance.”

“I don’t think we need to duel or anything. I don’t want to hurt—” Harry halted his speech, his eyes wildly searching the abandoned room.

“Mate?”

“I thought I saw something . . .” Harry muttered, furrowing his brow after a fruitless search. “Never mind, must be my imagination.”

“You sure you’re okay?” asked Ron. He appeared to be worried, but before he could ask further, the last kid they had been waiting for finally came. “Here he is, Harry!”

Harry peeked through the other side of the curtains. The kid greeted his mates, before they all filed inside the building together. Harry nodded at Ron. “Yeah, ready for this?”

“Of course. Let’s go.”

Harry spelled his shoes so there wouldn’t be any noise and watched Ron do the same. They sneaked out of their hiding place and into the opposite building, carefully checking for any wards. The culprits were still children who hadn’t even finished their education, though, so Harry didn’t find any. Tiptoeing up the stairs, Harry brought his forefinger to his lips and glanced over his shoulder at Ron when he heard the chattering upstairs.

“On three,” mouthed Harry, and Ron answered by adjusting the wand in his grip. Harry counted with his fingers soundlessly. Once the third finger was raised, they stormed up the remaining stairs and broke into the only door there. The kids jumped onto their feet, some of them swearing in surprise.

“Auror. Drop your wands,” warned Harry, pointing his wand in the general direction of the kids. Ron proceeded to take his position opposite of Harry, by the window, attempting to cut off any escape routes. The kids, five in total, stared at them in horror. Three of them let their wands fall onto the floor, while the remaining two still couldn’t overcome their shock. Harry scanned the room, taking in all the evidence—tubes of the illegal lube scattered on the desk at the centre of the room.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” Ron cast at the same time as Harry said, “ _Expelliarmus_!” The three kids without wands were immediately huddled together on the floor, tied with Ron’s rope. A light brown wand shot up into Harry’s hand, and he was about to cast another Disarming Spell at the last kid, when everything went pear-shaped.

The kid, pushed by fear at being caught, swished his wand in a pattern Harry fervently hoped wasn’t what he thought it was. But the word that slipped out of his mouth crushed Harry’s hope—he widened his eyes in fright. He could hear Ron swear, just as a beast with a lion head and a tail like a snake roared from the kid’s wand, sweeping everything it touched with bluish red flames.

“Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Harry cursed vehemently, dodging the growing limbs of the beast. “Ron, it’s a Chimaera,” he shouted when the Chimaera’s claws burned the curtains on the window. Ron leapt to the side, nearly bumping into the screaming kids on the floor. “Take them out! Apparate!”

“Bloody hell, I should have thought one experience with Fiendfyre is enough for a lifetime,” yelled Ron, trying to envelope the three kids with his arms. The other kid, the one Harry had just disarmed, was edging towards Ron, sobbing. Harry rolled on the floor, the Chimaera hot on his trail. “Harry, let’s go, we’ll call for help!”

“We can’t leave the fire, it’ll burn the neighbourhood!”

“We can—oh, _bleeding hell_ , Harry!”

Ron’s alarmed shout made Harry snap his face towards the trembling kid in the centre of the room, his wand shaking in his hand. The Chimaera’s tail crashed against the table, sending debris and sparks of fire towards the kid. Harry’s mind replayed how Ron said Crabbe was dead all those year ago, as Malfoy slumped and choked on Crabbe’s name again and again outside the Room of Requirement. Harry’s lungs constricted and his heart hammered so hard it was painful. History wasn’t supposed to repeat itself. No, everything should have ended when Voldemort died. Everything.

Running as fast as he could, Harry tackled the kid to the floor. A piece of burning wood from the table smacked him on the back and Harry screamed, trying to shield the kid from the raging fire with his body. The Chimaera roared, the crackles from its fire drowning any other voices. Harry swallowed back a whimper, hugging the kid tighter with his eyes clenched shut when he sensed another blow of fire coming towards him again. But instead, he felt something cold brush soothingly against the skin of his back, before a freezing, angry wind whirled around him.

Harry opened his eyes, desperately wishing whoever was behind him to be not the person he thought it was. But just like everything that had happened in his life, of course it would be Draco Malfoy sheltering him from the fuming fire. The sight of his see-through body engulfed by the fire, the wind around him slowly making every lick of flame freeze and crack, caused Harry’s heart to be stuck in his throat.

“Malfoy—”

“Apparate out, Potter!” Malfoy’s voice had an urgency that sent chills down Harry’s spine. His stomach turned cold as dread consumed him faster and faster.

“You’re not staying, are—”

“The kid, Potter,” bellowed Malfoy between the Chimaera’s howls, its breath of fire making Harry close his eyes instinctively. “Take the kids out! Weasley!”

Harry looked up at Ron. Smoke was making it hard to see, but Harry could make out how Ron’s eyes were bulging in shock at the sight of Malfoy, the four kids plastering themselves to his body. He then nodded at Harry determinedly. Harry swore, sensing the kid beneath him shaking violently. Glancing one last time at Malfoy, now almost unseen completely, Harry stilled himself and Apparated.

Outside, Harry coughed and dragged the kid towards the opposite building. Ron was already there before him, trying to soothe the panicking kids tugging at his arms.

“Ron, tell Robards! We need help!”

“You’re coming, too,” said Ron, his eyes wide with suspicion.

“Take him.” Harry pushed the kid towards Ron. “I’ll go find Malfoy.”

“No, Harry, you’re not going back there!” Ron grabbed Harry’s arm. Harry felt his legs shaking and he had trouble to even breathe, but Malfoy was—

“I can’t leave him there!”

“But he’s not even human, is he?” said Ron, tightening his grip. “He’s all transparent, is he a ghost?”

“He’s _not_ a ghost, and let me go, Ron,” hissed Harry. His whole face was hot, he didn’t even care if tears began to well in his eyes. “He’s not dead and if he is because I can’t help him, I’ll blame you!”

Ron looked as if he was smacked in the face. “Harry, you—”

“ _Ron_ —”

An explosion interrupted them, hot and cold waves mingled from the building behind them. The smoke made the air outside heavy and Harry’s eyes hurt from squinting. Standing rooted to the pavement, he couldn’t even order his feet to move. Ron’s grip on his arm tightened even more. The flames had died, from the look of it, and the building didn’t collapse, but Harry thought it was only just. A window frame flew into the air, traces of fire still visible before they disappeared as the frame crashed onto the street. Harry didn’t know when, but Muggles had gathered around them when he could breathe again, the smoke thinning. However the only thing he could think of was _Malfoy_.

“Harry,” called Ron, pulling him close. “Harry? Oh, bloody hell, Muggles. We should—”

“Malfoy,” said Harry, though he could hardly hear his own voice. Everything felt numb, the world tilted in his vision. He blinked the moisture forming in his eyes away to no avail—the building looked blurrier with every blink he took. “Oh God, Ron, Malfoy, we left him . . .”

Harry started to draw his arm from Ron’s hand, _needing_ to go, to check if Malfoy was still inside, but Ron yanked him back. “No, it’ll cave in. Malfoy’s not there.”

“How could you be so sure?” Harry asked, anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. “I told you, didn’t I, if Malfoy died, I’d blame—”

“Who fucking cares?” shouted Ron suddenly. “If _you_ died, I’d blame myself!”

Harry stared at him in shock, his mouth hung open. It was as if someone had just stabbed him with a giant knife in the guts.

“You’re coming with us. We’ll do something about Malfoy’s ghost later,” said Ron again. He gestured to the kids to follow him, hooking his arm around Harry’s shoulders. He led them all to find a secluded spot. He was in the process of ordering all the kids to hold onto him, when Harry took the opportunity to jerk away from Ron.

“Ha—”

“Sorry, Ron,” said Harry, pleading with his eyes, before he ran back towards the building. He heard Ron swearing, but Harry couldn’t shake off the feeling that he _needed_ to see Malfoy. He could deal with Ron later, he could even beg for forgiveness for being a prat later. But this couldn’t wait for later. It didn’t matter that his instinct was usually wrong—he even _wished_ it would be wrong this time. Still, nothing could make him stop from galloping back into the building, not even the screaming Muggles. His lungs protested from the thick smoke inside.

The stairs had fallen down halfway, soot in drifts at every corner. It was probably a good thing it was a deserted building with very little furniture remaining, otherwise it would have been a lot worse. Harry impatiently tried to search for another way to go upstairs, some emergency exits or anything. But he couldn’t find any, so he settled with shouting, “Malfoy!”

No answer came. Harry messed his hair, his throat dry as he continued to shout. “Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, answer!”

It was still silent—Harry hated silence, hated everything in this world now. He began to sense a sob vibrating in his chest, but he swallowed it down. He scrubbed at his eyes, his glasses layered with soot. He counted to ten, willing himself to calm down even though he wanted nothing more than to throw up from the sickening realisation that once again, Malfoy might be—

A cold wind embraced him, easing the burning wound at his back away, as Harry felt more than saw arms circling his waist from behind. “Potter,” said Malfoy, his lips brushing against Harry’s jaw. “No casualties, are there?”

Relief flooded over him, and Harry almost lost his footing.

“Malf—” He couldn’t resist the choke that escaped his lips. “I thought—you were—oh God.” He claimed Malfoy’s arms with his hands. “Oh God, I thought . . .”

“I don’t want anyone to die from that thing,” said Malfoy. His embrace was starting to hurt, but Harry didn’t care. “Again.”

“I don’t want you to die,” said Harry. He shut his eyes, biting his trembling lip. “Why did you follow me?”

“I’ve been doing it for days,” admitted Malfoy. “You’ve been so distracted ever since that day I . . .” He trailed off, loosening his hold against Harry’s waist instead so Harry could breathe again. “I thought it wouldn’t be safe for you to be out on missions while you're in such state.”

Harry tried to swallow, but it was hard when his chest felt so heavy. The whole situation was just so poignant that Harry didn't know if he was sad or glad for all the things Malfoy had done. He took a deep breath, looking down to calm himself, but startled when he saw Malfoy’s arms upon his stomach.

They were so light, so transparent that they didn’t even have colour anymore. Not even the greys and blacks Harry had been so accustomed to seeing.

“What's happening to you?” asked Harry. A horrible suspicion formed in the pit of his stomach, nagging at him. “Why are you so transparent?”

Malfoy didn’t answer for what seemed like forever until Harry wanted to turn around and challenge him. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that—he couldn’t look at Malfoy when he knew what he would see would destroy him. When Malfoy spoke, his voice was so quiet Harry could barely hear it, “The only reason I could win over the Fiendfyre is because I don’t have a vessel.”

“. . . and?” Harry forced himself to speak.

“I’m pure magic—that makes me stronger than any wizard. But . . .”

“What? But _what_?”

“But not having a vessel means I can’t take a rest. I can’t make my body recover the magic inside. I don’t have the core every wizard has—”

“Are you telling me that you’re going to disappear?” Harry asked, his nails digging into Malfoy’s arms, though he knew Malfoy wouldn’t feel anything. “You’re going to vanish because you don’t have a body, is that it?”

Malfoy was quiet again for a moment, before he nodded against Harry’s cheek. “Yes.”

Harry wanted to laugh at the irony. Why did everything have to end like this? Why did everything he did for Malfoy's sake always end up with him losing Malfoy instead? God, this was a horrible joke. This was the result of his stupidity for having stayed idle and sceptical for so long. Three and a half years he could have done something to stop the catastrophe Voldemort had left behind. Three and a half years he could have done something to help Malfoy. But he didn’t, and now he got what he deserved. Nevertheless Malfoy didn’t deserve this—he shouldn’t have _died_ , magically or not.

“I’m not letting you.” Harry clenched his jaw. He turned around and caught Malfoy’s hands as they dropped from around his waist. “I’ll find a way.”

“Potter.” Malfoy sighed, his eyes bitter. Harry had to will himself not to break down at the sight. Malfoy was barely visible, barely existing . . .

“Please. Just give me time. Please,” Harry pleaded, not caring if his voice had come out shaky. Malfoy flickered, nearly vanishing completely. Harry’s fingers gripped the air once Malfoy’s hands slipped out of them. The realisation that Malfoy couldn’t even keep his form solid hit Harry hard. But he could do this. He must do this. “I’ll be back. Trust me. I’ll be back.”

“Potter, I—” Harry didn’t want to hear him out. He whirled around, running towards the exit, when he heard Malfoy call him once more, “Harry, wait.”

The name Malfoy called him with made him do just that—wait. “. . . Yeah?”

“I’ll be . . . in the Manor,” said Malfoy. He held Harry’s eyes, his expression showed that he knew something Harry didn’t, again, and Harry hated that. “Come when you’re ready,” finished Malfoy before he disappeared entirely.

Harry took several seconds to collect himself together, to assure himself that Malfoy hadn’t disappeared for good. Taking a deep breath, he Apparated to where the only person who could help him would be.

**. .**

**. .**

**Six**

Raines’ expression when he saw Harry materialise in the middle of his living room was priceless. Harry would have enjoyed it if he wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown. As it was, he only managed to look at Raines, urging his voice to come out of his throat. “Help me.”

“Bugger,” Raines blurted out, eyes wide and unblinking. “Bugger, bugger, _bugger_. I need to check my eyes. Or my sanity. Did you just—did you—” He moved his hands frantically. “—like that, just— _poof_!”

“I did,” said Harry quickly. “I know it’s hard to believe, but—but I need your help.”

“Whoa, wait a minute, Harry Potter,” exclaimed Raines. “Don’t come near me.”

Harry made a frustrated noise. “You’re a wizard, too, for Merlin’s sake—”

“Is that why you always say ‘Merlin this’ and ‘Merlin that’? Oh wow, and I thought you were just that eccentric,” said Raines suddenly, punching his own palm as if he had just solved the biggest mystery on Earth. Harry messed up his hair in distress.

“Look, I really need your help, can’t you just come with me?” 

“Why?” asked Raines flatly, his gaze turning sceptical so quickly that Harry was caught off-guard. “Why should I help you?”

Harry took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. He needed Raines’ cooperation, and he needed it _fast_. “You want to know who you are, right? This is your only chance to regain your memories.”

“What do you mean this is my only chance?” asked Raines, still unwavering. “It’s really not funny. You told me I was a wizard, and then you popped out of nowhere, and now you’re telling me I can get my memories back?”

“Oh fuck it, why are you making this difficult?” Harry almost shouted. “We’re running out of time!”

“Well, how am I supposed to trust you?” Raines extended his arms theatrically. “Have you ever stopped and thought what it’d feel like to be me? _Have you_?”

Harry halted at that. Had he ever thought how Raines felt all this time? No, of course not—his mind was so full of Malfoy that he never paused to consider anything from Raines’ point of view. But Malfoy was more— _much_ more important, especially now. And this wasn’t really the time to talk about feelings.

“Would you,” Harry licked his lips, “would you believe me if I said you were important to me?”

Raines stared at him, his arms dropped to his sides.

“I never thought of you as important until recently, so even I was shocked,” Harry admitted dryly. “You were this arrogant, self-important git who could only talk about your father all the time, and you cheated in games so naturally like breathing, and, and you were so competitive that I couldn’t help but be competitive, too. . .”

“Harry Potter—”

“. . . you were a coward who always put your own safety before everything else, but then you proved to be really brave when it came to protecting your family. You were a master of hiding your troubles until you had to break down, you couldn’t kill, you lied to bloody save me, and I . . .” Harry shook his head. “. . . I almost killed you and I regret that even though you almost killed Ron. And I hated you. But what would those years of Hogwarts have been without you being annoying?”

“They’d be boring,” Raines said without hesitation. “From what I’m hearing, it seems like our history was extraordinary, and your life would be ordinary without me in it.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

“But Harry Potter,” said Raines slowly, “That sounded more like a film than a life. I'm more of a romcom fan—killing and being killed are not my cup of tea, you see.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at that, though it came out a bit strained. “Trust me, I wished countless times that there wouldn’t be any killing involved.”

“Was it really that bad? Wait, is it possible that we’re characters in a film, and that’s why we’re wizards?” Raines asked, but it was clear that he couldn’t keep the mocking and the scepticism out of his voice. “Because that’d be brilliant. I like sci-fi, see—”

“Raines,” Harry cut in, pleading. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I don’t care if you think this is all bullshit. I’m taking you no matter what.”

Raines stared, stepped back and said, “That’s terribly selfish of you.”

“I know. But I don’t care. Not this time,” said Harry. He moved forward, noting the way Raines’ expression turned guarded, his body stiffened and maybe it was panic that he was trying so hard to mask. Fear of knowing the truth, fear of losing himself, fear of things Harry couldn’t really comprehend. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Harry went on, before grabbing Raines’ arm and Apparating.

Once they arrived at Ron and Hermione’s flat, Raines gripped Harry’s arm, his other hand clutching his chest. “Bloody hell,” he said. His face was so pale that it reminded Harry of Malfoy’s condition even more. “What _was_ that?”

“Harry?” Hermione called out, her tone tentative. “Are you injured? And—is that Malfoy?”

Harry looked up to find Hermione watching Raines with obvious disbelief, a thick book laid forgotten at her feet. Harry put his hand over Raines’. “I'm fine. It’s—it’s Malfoy. I need your help.”

“What? But—” Hermione seemed to be at a loss. “Ron Firecalled and said that Malfoy’s a ghost, but—”

“What? Did Ron tell anyone aside from you? Did he tell Robards?” Harry almost swore for not realising it sooner. Of course Ron wouldn’t keep it from Robards—how else could he explain the mysterious manner the Fiendfyre died?

“What the hell’s happening here?” Raines demanded as soon as he could stand straight again, snatching his hand off Harry’s. “Where is this? What did you do?” He went back and forth between Harry and Hermione's faces, wildly searching for answers.

“Harry,” began Hermione cautiously. “He doesn’t sound like Malfoy. Do you mind explaining it to me?”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to block the voices in his head, all screaming that the longer he wasted his time, the more dangerous it was for Malfoy. But he didn’t have any choice if he wanted them to help, did he?

“The spell,” said Harry, looking up again. “I need you to perform the spell that could stop the curse.”

Hermione opened her mouth for several seconds, but no sound came out—undoubtedly her brain was running so fast that her voice couldn’t quite keep up. In the end she managed, “Do you need it now? Is this urgent?”

“Yes, yes.” Harry could hear desperation in his own voice. “I promise I’ll tell you everything later, but now—”

“Is—is there anything I should know before I cast the spell? A special condition of some sort that could affect the spell?” She eyed Raines as she said it, to which Harry saw Raines responding with a glare.

“Yes, it’s a ritual.” Harry promptly groped inside his robe pocket, grateful that he'd been taking the box with him everywhere. He enlarged it and quickly whispered Malfoy’s name. As the box was open, he handed the torn page of Mrs Malfoy’s diary to Hermione. “Malfoy was turned into a Muggle. I’ve added the complete steps at the back, and I think we can still reverse it because somehow the ritual wasn’t completed.”

Hermione scanned the paper, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “And this is the final step? Oh, God. Who has—”

“His mother,” answered Harry hastily. “Can you do something about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Harry.” Hermione shook her head, looking so distracted. “This is intriguing, the whole thing is, but if Malfoy has become a Muggle, I think his magic is gone for good.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Harry countered. “Like I said, the ritual wasn’t completed. Malfoy’s magic still exists.”

Hermione gazed at Raines. “But . . .”

“Yeah, well, don’t look at me like that, I don’t know anything. Is what I think even important?” asked Raines bitterly. “Harry Potter here doesn’t think so.”

“I think you should just shut up because you don’t know anything,” said Harry through gritted teeth. Suddenly the anger was more profound than before. “You don’t know what you—the _real_ you is experiencing right now. You don’t know that—”

“What the _fuck_ did you mean by the real me?” shouted Raines. “Of course I wouldn’t understand, you never tried to explain—”

“I did try to explain it to you,” Harry shouted back. “But you didn’t want to believe it!”

“How could I, when the only thing you had to say was how I couldn’t be my own past self!”

“But I did tell you about—”

“ _Silencio_!

Harry’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his retort died in his throat. Raines seemed to be in the same predicament, so Harry directed his glare to Hermione.

“I’ll release you both if you promise not to fight and instead _focus_ on the problem at hand,” said Hermione, her wand pointed at Harry specifically. Lowering it, she raised her chin in a manner that Harry had known so well since the first time he met her on the Hogwarts Express. “From what I’ve gathered so far, this is the Muggle Malfoy, he doesn’t know anything about magic. And you seem to think that there’s another Malfoy—the _real_ Malfoy, as you put it—and you said that his magic still exists . . . meaning that the ghost of Malfoy Ron saw this afternoon is in fact Malfoy’s magic. Am I correct?”

Harry's mouth stayed agape, this time in shock. He could only nod weakly. Hermione seemed pleased and continued, “Ron told me Malfoy’s ghost had helped you both. I can only assume that he has all of Malfoy’s memories, too. And since his mother was the one who did this . . . yes, I understand her motive.”

Harry nodded again, and from his peripheral, he could see Raines frown at Hermione’s deduction.

“Now Harry, you want me to help you reverse the ritual. Why? You know that the spell can only help temporarily, it won’t stop the curse from spreading for long.”

Harry tried to answer, but he still had no voice. Hermione looked as though she had just remembered about the Silencing Charm and quickly ended it. Harry rubbed his throat, aware that she still hadn’t released Raines.

“If you come with me, you’ll understand,” said Harry. “I know that we still haven’t found a way to reverse the ritual, but there are some notes, you can look at them in the Manor. And we’re running out of time as we speak . . . Malfoy’s magic is . . .” Harry faltered, unable to bring himself to say it. “As long as we have that spell, if—if you could just reverse the ritual and cast that spell, we can still try to find a way to break the curse.”

Hermione only gazed at him, but Harry knew she must have seen something, understood something. “Oh, Harry, tell me you’re not . . .” She stopped and decided to hug him. It was all Harry could do not to break down all over again. “I can’t say I agree with you, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Harry hugged her back, sniffling in her bushy hair. “Thank you.”

Releasing him, Hermione glanced at Raines. She took a rather long time before she removed the Silencing Charm. Raines remained silent, though, and if there was a time when Harry hated himself, it was when he saw Raines looking so resigned, so defeated and hopeless because of Harry.

“I'm not going to apologise,” said Harry again.

“I know. Can’t say I blame you,” said Raines.

“You can. Maybe you really should.”

Raines refused to look at Harry and the apathetic mask was back in place. Harry took a deep breath—once, twice. He, too, refused to meet Hermione’s eyes, urging himself to ignore the burning shame. The clock in Hermione’s living room was ticking obnoxiously loud, reminding Harry time and again that Malfoy could disappear any second. Therefore he stilled himself, taking both Hermione and Raines’ hands to Apparate.

**. .**

**. .**

All the while from the moment they reached the Manor gate until they passed through the layers of wards by the front door, Raines was silent and pale. He did keep throwing his glance everywhere as far as he could see, but the look on his face was far from fascinated. If anything, the further they went inside the Manor, the paler he got. Harry, too, had to keep reminding himself that it was necessary, that it was time for Raines to find out who he was. And Hermione—if she had felt uncomfortable about visiting the Malfoy Manor, she masked it very well. Harry thought the way she kept looking straight ahead perhaps had something to do with it.

Malfoy, as predicted, was sitting on his parents’ bed, staring at the wall opposite him. He still looked terribly fragile, flickering to nothingness every now and then. Harry held Hermione’s hand, waiting by the chamber’s door, waiting for Malfoy to acknowledge them.

“Welcome, Granger, Raines,” said Malfoy after a moment of nerve-wrenching silence. He looked at Harry, but not for long. He seemed to be more interested in studying the stunned Raines.

“Malfoy,” greeted Hermione, her tone wary. “I take it your magic is drained because of the Fiendfyre?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “You understand?”

Hermione nodded. “If you let me study the ritual, the notes Harry said you’ve prepared, maybe I could help.”

Malfoy laughed at that, dry to the point that it was nearly rude. “See, this is why I was so certain that you’d ask for her help, Potter,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining. It saves me from having to explain things.”

“She’s not the only one I asked for help,” said Harry.

“I could see that.” Malfoy tilted his head to the side. “But you’re not under the delusion that I’ll ever give my consent to what you’re planning to do, are you?”

“At this point, I think Raines should be the one who decides,” said Harry.

Malfoy seemed a bit taken aback, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as Raines's reaction.

“ _What_?” Raines asked.

Harry sighed, wishing he could skip this part and just get to action. “I know I was an arsehole for dragging you forcibly, and I said I wouldn’t apologise, so I won’t. But that is—Draco Malfoy. He is you. Your magic. Your memory. And I—” He hesitated, fighting the urge to avoid Raines’ gaze. “I’m hoping you can be your old self again.”

Raines was staring at Harry incredulously, his lips slightly parted. Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand, and for the first time in nearly five months, Harry was grateful to have her. When Raines spoke again, he sounded furious. “My _old_ self? Do you want me to disappear? Oh fuck me, of course you do!”

Harry spluttered. “That’s not what I—”

“Of course that’s what you mean! Isn’t that why you look so guilty?” Raines snapped. He pointed at Malfoy, who was watching him with wide eyes. “Clearly I’m so different from him, have you ever—have you ever thought that I don’t want to lose myself, to lose the only thing I have now, to a complete stranger?”

“He’s not a stra—”

“For me he _is_ ,” bellowed Raines. His face was red and his breathing harsh. “I want to know my past, I _long_ for memories, but—” He stopped, blinking repeatedly as he sniffed. “Do you know why I love romcoms?”

Harry didn’t answer—he couldn’t even see how Malfoy and Hermione might be reacting to this.

“Because they're so normal, so bloody day to day, that I imagined I could be a character in one. That maybe, if I kept watching, I'd remember something.”

There was a long silence before Harry braced himself to speak again, “. . . if you want, you’ll have your past again.”

“But will it end the life of Ian Raines?” asked Raines, his expression made Harry wish he hadn’t said anything. “I never—never thought that it’d be this scary.”

Harry had nothing to say to that. Fortunately, Hermione had.

“Then why don’t you think about it? I need time to continue the research, meanwhile you could decide whether you want to be reunited with your magic or not.”

“Wait a minute, Granger,” Malfoy interrupted. “The problem isn't all about whether we're reunited or not, is it?”

Hermione chewed her lip, looking pained. “I—I guess not.”

“Hermione—”

“He deserves to know, Harry,” said Hermione. “About the curse.”

“The curse,” repeated Raines. He laughed humourlessly and looked like he was on the verge of being hysterical. “I always got the feeling that my life wasn't as ordinary as those films, but surely this is a little drastic?” He seemed to sober up after a while, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Never mind. If you have anything more to add, you’d better say it all now. While I’m still sane enough.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand again. He knew what she meant, but . . . “The spell will give us time,” was the only thing he could say.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Malfoy, suddenly floating beside Harry. He pinned Raines with an unreadable gaze and Raines stared back at him with something that looked like a challenge. Yet Malfoy continued to talk to Harry without taking his attention off Raines. “Have you found a way to break the curse?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione beat him to it. “It’s temporary, but it’s progress. We can stall the curse from activating, but since it’s never been tried on a real cursed person . . . we can’t guarantee its success.”

“Hermione,” exclaimed Harry in shock. “But you said—”

“We conducted experiments, Harry, from what we have collected so far. But you should have known that we don’t have anyone who has the Dark Mark on our side. We wanted to try it on Malfoy and hoped it would work, but now that Malfoy has been saved as a Muggle, I really can’t say if our decision to experiment on him is wise,” she admitted, her eyes apologetic. Harry could only stare at her dumbly, trying to process it all but his brain failed to get on board. “But I understand why you’d want me to cast the spell. I really do.”

“I don’t,” said Malfoy. “Is liking me enough of a reason for you to risk Raines’ life?”

Harry shook his head, looking down at his trainers. “I don’t want to risk anyone’s life. I just want you to live. Is that too much to ask?”

“But I am alive,” countered Malfoy. “As Ian Raines. You put me at risk, too, if you insist on doing this, Potter.”

Harry held back a frustrated sob, not wanting to lift his face, but he could imagine how Malfoy looked when he said that.

“I think it’s way too early for us to give up,” said Hermione firmly. “I’m here to _help_ , let me see your notes. We may be able to help both of you—Raines and Malfoy.”

Harry jerked his face up, hope flaring in his chest. Hermione was looking obstinate, her eyes alight with determination. Even Raines seemed to be openly speechless at this. But Malfoy was different—he was much more used to hiding things, and if he was hopeful, he hid it very well.

“Now, Granger, a bit overly confident, are we?” Malfoy sneered. “How could you be so sure you could help us?”

“Don’t twist my words, Malfoy. I said ‘I might be able to help’. There’s no harm in trying until the time’s up. Your mother found a way to dodge the curse, the Ministry found a way to stall the curse, so there will be a way to break the curse, too. Every question always has answers,” said Hermione, her nose high as she said it. Harry wanted to hug her gratefully, if only he wasn’t too busy trying not to think about the ‘time’s up’.

As if on cue, Malfoy flickered and vanished. It was almost thirty seconds or maybe even longer before he appeared again. Harry’s legs almost gave up.

“Please,” said Harry, his voice broke. “Hermione, hurry.”

Hermione nodded in alert. “Show me the libra—”

“Let me talk to Potter,” Malfoy cut in. When Harry wanted to protest, Malfoy held his hand up. “Just the two of us. Thank you.”

Hermione exchanged glances with Raines. Malfoy didn’t seem fazed when Raines was only too happy to obey, slamming the door closed behind him. Hermione took longer than him, nevertheless she did leave the chamber. Harry gulped and stared at Malfoy, who was by now so close to him.

“Mal—”

“Are you really sure about this?” asked Malfoy, his voice soft. And the way he looked at Harry, the way he whispered, were the complete opposite of what he showed in front of Hermione and Raines. “Do you really want me to unite with my body?”

“I only want you to—”

“—live, I know.” Malfoy nodded. “But I’m more worried about what will happen next. Will you be all right? Will you be able to accept whatever may happen?”

Harry wanted to smash his head against the wall. The whole thing was so confusing that he didn’t know what he should say anymore.

“I _don’t_ know! Raines won’t accept . . .”

“Forget about Raines,” said Malfoy to Harry’s surprise. “He is me. It doesn’t matter. Tell me, Potter. Tell me what you want. Give me your word.”

“I want . . .” said Harry, “I want you.”

Malfoy searched Harry’s eyes, his thumbs ghosting over Harry’s cheekbones. After what seemed like forever, he nodded firmly. “I understand.”

Harry didn’t know what that meant—not until it was too late. By the time he regained control over both his mind and body, Malfoy had already gone through the door. Harry rushed to follow, banging the door open and freezing upon what he came across.

“Harry,” yelled Hermione in panic, her wand in hand, “I don’t know why, but suddenly he just—!”

Malfoy was holding Raines’ face, a wild wind swirling around them. Trying to extract himself, Raines clutched at Malfoy’s wrist, his eyes wide and scared. But Malfoy merely stared back calmly, pinning Raines farther back and against the wall. His face inched closer and closer, until their foreheads touched. Harry thought they would stay that way, but he was wrong. Malfoy’s form looked as though it was being absorbed into Raines, their silhouettes becoming a mess of blurs.

The moment Hermione’s cry pierced Harry’s consciousness, Malfoy had gone entirely.

“Oh fuck. Oh shit.” Harry stormed towards where Raines— _Malfoy_ was standing listlessly against the wall, his eyes empty. Hermione was already supporting him, slowly leading him to sit on the floor. “What did he do?” shouted Harry in distress.

“I think he knew how to get back into his body. Maybe he knew what his mother did to him,” said Hermione frantically, her wand waving over Malfoy who remained unresponsive. “I just wish he’d warned us before he did that!”

“But it’s impossible, I was the only one who found that last step! Why didn’t he tell me if he knew how to reverse it?”

“Harry.” Hermione shook her head, sounding impatient. “Do you honestly think Malfoy couldn’t guess the last step of that ritual? His mother died, that’s enough a proof for him to think that she sacrificed herself to perform it!”

Harry felt his stomach turn cold at the disclosure. “But—”

“And he might have felt something when he was in a close proximity to Raines. I just don’t understand why he suddenly did that, when he clearly objected to it just fifteen minutes ago!”

_Oh, fuck._

Harry watched Malfoy, who was now closing his eyes slowly. The colourful lights from Hermione’s wand made everything feel even more unreal, as Harry tuned her voice out. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but remember—

_I want you._

Raking his fingers through his hair, Harry forced himself to calm down. It didn’t mean anything—Malfoy was back in his body again, and now they just had to find a way to stop the curse. He shouldn’t assume the worst now that Malfoy had done what Harry wanted.

Except that Malfoy did it without preparation. He didn’t even give Hermione time to search out a way to keep him alive.

“Merlin,” said Hermione, and the way she almost whimpered in frustration did nothing to ease Harry’s anxiousness. “It’s showing up!”

Harry’s eyes slid towards Malfoy’s left arm, the denim sleeve of which was rolled up. The Dark Mark was faded, but it was there. Harry’s breathing hitched in dread as the grey lines turned darker and darker.

“I need to cast the spell. We need to stall the curse,” said Hermione. She was bending down, wholly disregarding Harry and muttering under her breath. He didn’t mind, after all he didn’t even understand what was happening. It was as if he was watching everything from under water—Hermione’s voice, the lights from her wand, even Malfoy’s figure seemed distorted and indistinct. It might have lasted for only a minute or maybe even an hour, Harry couldn’t tell.

“Harry.” Hermione nudged his shoulder, and Harry opened his eyes because somehow he had stopped looking at all. “Are you all right?” She studied him, squeezing his shoulder in what should have been reassuring, but ended up making Harry sick. “I’m finished. We just have to wait.”

Harry tried to keep breathing. Malfoy looked like he was asleep—his Dark Mark was glowing green. Swallowing, Harry managed to ask, “Why isn’t he awake?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “Maybe his body’s trying to recover his magic—after all he has almost drained it.” Sighing, she sat back on her heels. “I think we should move him. We need to monitor his reaction to the spell.”

“I’ll take him to Grimmauld Place,” said Harry.

“Harry, he might need some potions to keep him strong.”

“Then you can prepare the potions.”

Sighing again, Hermione rubbed her face. “Perhaps that’s the best idea. We can’t move him to St Mungo’s without creating a ruckus.”

“Kreacher,” called Harry, not wanting to waste any more time. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up in disapproval.

“Master is calling Kreacher?” asked Kreacher right after he popped beside Harry.

“Yes, please take Malfoy to Grimmauld Place.”

“Harry, there’s no need to ask Kreacher,” Hermione chided.

“No, we need Kreacher,” Harry countered. “I can’t Apparate him out because of the wards and—I don’t know if it’s wise to use other spells on him. And I don’t trust myself to carry him right now. Merlin, I don’t even know if I could Apparate without Splinching him!”

Hermione looked pinched, but otherwise restrained herself from commenting further.

Kreacher observed Malfoy closely, his tiny eyes widening a fraction—probably because it was _Malfoy_. “Kreacher will take him to the House of Black.” With that, he seized Malfoy’s shoulder and Disapparated.

“Harry,” began Hermione when Harry didn’t say anything more. “We need to go, too.”

Nodding, Harry let out his breath shakily. He had faced Voldemort and death. But this time, facing the possibility of losing someone he cared for—again—was a thousand times scarier. Especially if it was because of his own idiocy.

Pushing every single shattering thought aside, Harry tried to find his way out of the Manor.

**. .**

**. .**

When Malfoy woke up, it had been two days since he had been back in his own body. Hermione had started to fuss, worried that they would need to send him to St Mungo’s if he still hadn’t woken up. But thankfully, he did. Harry fretfully stood by the bed, restraining himself from crushing Malfoy with a hug while Malfoy blinked his sleep away. As he sat up on the bed and slowly turned towards Harry, he frowned and said, “Harry Potter.”

Harry felt the world almost end at once.

“Malfoy,” said Harry, his throat dry. “Please tell me you’re not Raines.”

Malfoy blinked, his frown deepening, and then he groaned, “Bloody hell, my head.” He rubbed his head. “Merlin, it feels weird.”

“What do you mean? Are you all right?” Harry promptly sat on the edge of the bed. Then he said in a daze, “You said ‘Merlin’.”

“Astute, Potter. I’m shocked you haven’t been made a first-class Auror,” said Malfoy with a roll of his eyes. He winced right after, but it was all Harry could do not to dance with joy right there and then. “Bloody hell, my head feels like it’s going to split in two.”

“I can, uhm, give you a headache potion,” offered Harry, even though the only thing he wanted to do right now was to kiss Malfoy senseless. Malfoy raised his head from his hand, eyeing Harry.

“That’d be nice, Harry Potter,” he said, sounding extremely tired. “Oh, honestly, this is confusing. I feel like there are two people in my head.”

“Maybe you mean two sets of memories. You’re only one person now,” Harry pointed out.

Malfoy sighed. “I suppose. It feels weird, I know how I—how Raines felt when I forced him to unite. But I also know how _I_ felt when I did that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Malfoy said simply. “This is what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then so be it.”

For a moment they fell into an awkward silence. Harry tried hard to keep his heartbeat quiet, but he suspected it could be heard even from the street outside. Malfoy flicked his gaze to Harry’s lips and back to Harry’s eyes again. All of a sudden Harry felt everything around him evaporate into oblivion, and there were only Malfoy and his blond hair and his pale complexion and his pointy chin. 

“Oh.”

Harry jolted in his seat, while Malfoy quickly looked away. Hermione was staring at them by the door, her mouth open wordlessly. She cleared her throat.

“Granger,” said Malfoy. Harry wished he could cover his fluster that easily.

“Malfoy, you’re awake,” said Hermione lamely. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but mercifully didn’t comment on Hermione’s observation skills. “Anyway,” she cleared her throat again,  
“it’s nice to know you’re awake. I have a few potions for you.”

“I hope there’s one for a headache.”

Hermione nodded, making her way towards the bedside table. She produced three vials from her pocket and set them on top of the table. “Drink them in the following order—red, purple and yellow. And this one is for your headache,” she said, fishing out another vial, a transparent one.

“What are the other three?” Malfoy sounded suspicious, plus a bit miffed at being dictated to by Hermione. Harry hoped he wasn't going to have to be in the middle. He already had enough of that with Ron and Hermione and their infamous rows. Thankfully Hermione didn’t take offence.

“The first two are to control your magical energy. I suspect your magic is growing steadily back in your body. The yellow one is a nutrient potion, since you didn’t eat at all for two days.”

Malfoy seemed to mull over the information, then muttered quietly, “I see.”

“It’s up to you whether you want to trust me or not. I only did it for Harry.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat up.

“Don’t get all worked up, I never said I wouldn’t take them,” said Malfoy, waving his hand dismissively. “By the way, where am I exactly?”

“Grimmauld Place, the Black house,” answered Hermione, because Harry’s brain had died the moment he remembered Malfoy was lying in his bed. “Now let’s check your arm.”

Rolling up his— _Harry’s_ pyjama sleeve, Malfoy bit his lower lip. “Everything seems to be normal.”

Just as Malfoy said, the Dark Mark looked no different from the way it usually did. The green glow had dissipated, leaving a prominent black ink over Malfoy’s skin. Hermione gestured with her wand, enveloping Malfoy’s arm in another green glow.

“So far so good,” said Hermione. “It reacts just like it should. If everything’s all right, this should be effective for a couple of months before I need to cast it again.”

“Brilliant. Now my life is completely dependent on a spell,” said Malfoy sarcastically. He took a vial from the bedside table and downed it in one gulp.

“At least we have time to search for the counter curse,” Harry quickly added. He knew Hermione had purposefully left out the fact that the next time she cast the spell, there was no guarantee that it would work again. And he knew what he had done the last two days—watching Malfoy sleep day and night—wasn’t productive at all. But he wasn’t going to let this chance of having Malfoy back slip from his fingers once more.

Perhaps the lack of response from Malfoy and Hermione wasn’t a good sign, but Harry didn’t care.

**. .**

**. .**

As it turned out, Ron hadn’t said anything to Robards about Malfoy. The case was closed without any clear answers. If Robards were to investigate further, Harry was sure the Aurors would detect Malfoy’s magical signature. However, Robards was too preoccupied by the fact that Harry and Ron had disobeyed him. Their beyond second-rate performance cost them a suspension—Robards ordered them to take garden leave until further notice. It was when Harry was in the middle of ‘borrowing’ some books from the Auror archive room, that Ron found him.

“Dark Arts, Harry?” Ron asked, but his tone was neither judging nor accusing. He was simply standing there, leaning against the doorframe and watching Harry.

Adding another book to the top of his pile on the floor, Harry nodded. “They’re the books from Malfoy Manor.”

“You do know they’ve put tracking spells on confiscated stuff? Especially the ones with, you know, Dark Arts?”

Harry nodded distractedly.

“The protection wards? Did you know about them? The alarm will set off the moment you bring them past this door, mate.”

“I’m not going to take them out. I’m going to copy them.”

Ron looked baffled, but then he groaned. “Hermione taught you, didn’t she? It’s weird enough that you’re all buddy-buddy with Malfoy, but now Hermione, too.”

“I’m not all buddy-buddy with him.” Harry glared. He recited the incantation in his mind before muttering it out loud, swishing his wand in a complicated pattern. A moment later, the exact copies of the books on his left side appeared on his right side. Huffing in relief, he made a mental note to thank Hermione again later.

“Well, he did save us, so I’m not complaining,” said Ron eventually, his voice strangled. “It just came as a—shock.”

“It did, didn’t it?” Harry couldn’t help but grin a little. “Many strange things happened. And now that we’re kind of sacked but not really, I need to get these books while I can.” He shoved the copies into his satchel, magically charmed by Hermione, and shrunk it.

“Yeah, well, nice to know at least someone’s not sad about being suspended,” grumbled Ron. “I’ll get back to clearing my desk,” he said before walking away.

Harry sighed, eyeing the tiny satchel on his palm. He didn’t have time to be sad about it when he had something bigger to worry about, did he?

Pocketing the satchel, Harry began to walk out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Living with Malfoy hadn’t been easy, and Harry would never be daft enough to think it would be easy. But this Malfoy had the annoying qualities of both the old Malfoy and Raines. Sometimes Harry wanted to throttle him for being so insufferable, especially when Malfoy was being cranky every time his body craved for a cigarette, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to have one. Still, this Malfoy could also look at Harry with a soft gaze, and he could show that small smile that made Harry forgive him for being a prat instantly. And this Malfoy was real.

“Potter, seriously,” said Malfoy when Harry couldn’t stop staring at his _supposedly_ sleeping face. “That’s creepy.”

Harry licked his lips, pretty sure his heart had just done a somersault. Malfoy was looking back at him, his hair tousled and eyelids droopy from sleep. Harry pretended to inspect the stripes on the pillow cover instead. “Kreacher never lets me sleep until noon.”

“Who said I slept until noon?” Malfoy made a face. “If you must know, I woke up early. I was only having a nap.”

“Well, Kreacher never allows me to have a nap either.”

“I suspect that’s because your uncanny House Elf likes me more than he likes you.”

“You don’t say.” Harry sniffed.

“And the portrait downstairs—Great Aunt Walburga—is she ever quiet?”

“Never as long as I’ve lived here,” said Harry wryly. He had learnt to ignore the portrait’s existence, mainly because Hermione taught him a spell that could freeze portraits, making them like Muggle ones. If Malfoy thought she was never quiet, then it was time to freeze her again.

“Hmm,” said Malfoy. He didn’t say anything more, so Harry fidgeted with his sleeve, marvelling at the way the sun from the window made Malfoy’s bare chest a shade more golden. It took him a while before he realised Malfoy was gazing back at him.

“Um.”

Malfoy watched him some more. He reached up to poke Harry’s cheek and said, “Come here.”

If his heart had done a somersault before, it was dancing right now. Harry took off his robes, letting them fall to the floor. He slipped under the duvet still in his shirt and trousers, nudging Malfoy a bit to make some room. Malfoy complied, lying on his side so he could continue staring at Harry. Harry, too, positioned himself to face Malfoy, suddenly feeling the bed was too big that there was still space between them.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” asked Malfoy quietly.

“You’re staring at me, too.”

“I mean not just now, you git.”

Harry wondered what he should say to that. Perhaps the truth was the best. “I just want to make sure that . . . you’re real.”

Malfoy snorted softly. “It’s not like my ghost form was unreal.”

“No, but it feels different,” Harry tried again, “I wanted to make sure that you’re warm, and that you’re really Draco Malfoy.”

“You’re strangely stubborn about Raines.” Malfoy sighed. Harry was about to defend himself, but Malfoy raised a hand to stop him. “No need to say anything. I understand.”

So Harry let the subject drop, choosing to savour the moment by inspecting every curve and angle on Malfoy’s face, every flex of muscles in his chest and shoulders.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asked. At Malfoy’s raised eyebrows, he quickly clarified, “Not like _that_ , I mean, I only want to feel your warmth.” He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole once he realised how cheesy he sounded. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want me to,” he mumbled in despair.

“Really, Potter, do you still feel the need to ask? As I recall, you’ve touched my—”

And Harry kissed him. He kissed him because when Draco Malfoy felt amused, it usually involved Harry’s misery. And because those lips were too soft not to kiss. Sensing Malfoy’s warm breath caressing his cheek, Harry let Malfoy nip at his bottom lip. The kiss was so different to the one he got from Malfoy’s magic, and although it was a bit similar to the one he got from Raines, it was also different because this one felt a thousand times more right. Harry relished the sensation, breathing in his own body wash and shampoo and the unique scent Harry used to identify in Raines, but without the bitter waft and taste of cigarette. Harry realised with delight that the scent was Malfoy’s.

“Do you want to—you know,” said Malfoy, his eyes glazed over.

“Oh,” said Harry, breathless. “Um. Yeah. Yeah.”

“Then get on with it.” Malfoy laughed, threading his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry was sure he couldn’t hide his flush as he tried to disentangle himself and scoot over until he was on his knees. Shoving the duvet to the floor, he stared at Malfoy’s trousers—grey and clearly finely tailored.

“Where did you get those?”

“Kreacher. Your wardrobe offended me.”

Harry snorted, even as he started undoing Malfoy’s belt. “It’s not like wearing jeans is going to kill you.”

“Don’t be a prat, Potter. That’s not what one should talk about with their soon-to-be-shag-partner.”

Harry didn’t respond to that, feeling his face flare up. Instead he unzipped Malfoy’s trousers and tugged at them until they were on Malfoy’s thighs. Malfoy, Harry noted, had even asked Kreacher to fetch black silk boxers for him. Raising his eyebrows in amusement at Malfoy’s smirk, Harry pulled the boxers downward. He gulped when he remembered how the last time he saw Malfoy’s cock, it was when his world started falling to ruin.

Shaking himself, Harry took a deep breath and dipped his head. He gave Malfoy’s cock a firm grip, taking it into his mouth and almost crying in relief as the warmth hit his tongue. Of course it would be much better—because now Malfoy wasn’t black and grey, wasn’t frigid and dry, and certainly wasn’t cold. This Malfoy was so human and it finally struck Harry that yes, it wasn’t a _dream_. Yes, this was his Malfoy. Yes, he could stop worrying that everything was only in his head, that he was losing his marbles. Harry could trust Malfoy, and certainly he could trust himself as well.

“What are you thinking about?”

Harry glanced up to find Malfoy looking at him with a flush on his cheeks and neck. Harry chose to answer that question by sucking the head of Malfoy’s cock, causing Malfoy to shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Harry continued sucking and licking, all the while holding Malfoy’s gaze. There was a hungry gleam in Malfoy’s eyes, and his lower lip was so red from all the biting. The rise and fall of his chest told Harry how ragged Malfoy’s breathing was, and Harry wondered, if he could hear Malfoy moan.

He licked the lines of veins along the side of Malfoy’s cock, his hand playing with Malfoy's balls, before taking the cock whole in his mouth again. Malfoy seemed to have difficulties keeping his eyes open, but still trying anyway. The hand that wasn’t clutching at the sheets was stroking Harry’s hair. Harry was giving another suck to the head when Malfoy suddenly sat up. He pulled Harry towards him, claiming Harry’s mouth in a fierce kiss.

“I want to touch you, too,” whispered Malfoy, and it was all Harry could do not to moan at the vivid image his mind supplied.

Unbuckling his belt, Harry tried to calm his racing heart. Malfoy helped him unbutton his jeans, and yanked them together with the pants off Harry’s legs. Then he did the same with his own trousers and boxers. Motioning Harry to shuffle closer, he gave a mischievous smile. Harry’s plan to snap a smart arse comment over that smile died the moment Malfoy took their cocks together and began to stroke.

Resting his forehead on Malfoy’s shoulder, Harry struggled to keep the moans from escaping his lips, because really—

“Would it kill you to moan?” Harry asked with effort.

“Malfoys don’t make obscene noises, Potter,” said Malfoy, seemingly struggling like Harry. “Why don’t you do the moaning for both of us?”

“You wish,” Harry managed, before he bit his lip so hard he feared it would bleed.

“If you do, maybe I’ll consider letting you fuck me next time,” said Malfoy, and Harry nearly groaned. He looked up from the comfort of Malfoy’s shoulder to find a naughty leer.

“Let’s see if you keep from moaning when I do fuck you,” said Harry.

Malfoy let out a throaty laugh. “We’ll see.”

Harry smiled, letting his hands wander over Malfoy's sweaty skin. He savoured the warmth on his fingertips, the tingling sensation that shot from his fingers straight to his lower belly. The line of scar tissue on Malfoy’s chest was slightly raised, but didn’t feel so different to the other parts of his skin. Harry wanted to kiss that scar, but Malfoy tugged at his hair. Resisting a gasp when Malfoy's hand sped up on their cocks, Harry pulled him into a kiss. As Malfoy was coming, he bit Harry’s lower lip so hard that Harry had to suppress a whimper. It only took three more strokes until Harry came as well—with a rather loud moan.

“You just moaned,” Malfoy pointed out, laughing as he threw himself back onto the bed.

“Bloody hell, that means I have to fuck you, doesn’t it?” Harry pretended to be shocked, while Malfoy merely laughed harder. Harry let a smile form on his lips. “Well, I’m sure I will enjoy that. Very much.”

“Mm, let’s see if you can get it up again in the next five minutes.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“Um. How about ten?”

“Too bloody long, and you call yourself the Chosen One.”

“I never call myself by that stupid name, and what does that have to do with it anyway?” Harry rolled his eyes, lying on the bed and nuzzling Malfoy’s neck.

“Stop it, you big cuddler,” Malfoy gave a playful shove. He gazed sleepily at Harry. “I’m tired, let’s take a nap first.”

“But you just did,” said Harry. “Are you all right? Still not feeling well?”

“No, just a bit sluggish. Takes time to get used to a body again,” said Malfoy as he closed his eyes. “Oh, please clean the mess, will you? I don’t have my wand.”

Groping for his wand, which was conveniently stashed on the floor, near his bundle of robes, Harry muttered a Cleaning Charm. By the time he settled back on the bed, Malfoy was already asleep. Harry replayed back what they had done and what they would do, unable to keep himself from smiling stupidly. Running his fingers through Malfoy’s hair, Harry couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe he should consider storing this memory so he could see it again and again with a Pensieve. With a big grin, Harry shut his eyes and impatiently waited for sleep to come, so he could wake up and fuck Malfoy.

Everything seemed to be going well, Harry couldn’t ask for more, really. But when he woke up two hours later and found Malfoy curled up at his side, panting and terribly pale . . . Harry felt maybe the world hated him after all. 

**. .**

**. .**

**Seven**

Harry should have been used to the busy corridors of St Mungo’s, especially to the ones on the fourth floor. The grim looking Healers and Mediwitches with their _c_ _lip-clop_ shoes, all bustling about with new patients that kept on coming. Getting hit by hexes and jinxes was common when one was in Auror Training—even more so when one was an Auror. But now he wanted to blast them all, to tell them to be quiet, for Malfoy was in there, in the room across the hall, and Harry wanted nothing more than to demand for someone to tell him what in the _hell_ was actually happening.

He had done everything in a daze from the moment he realised something was wrong. He shook Malfoy, called his name over and over again, but yielded no response. He tried to reassure himself that it was nothing, and he pretty much succeeded in doing so, at least until he had finished dressing Malfoy. But Malfoy was getting colder, sweat forming on his forehead and neck. Harry waited and waited, Firecalling Hermione when he knew he would lose control if this continued. The last thing he remembered was Hermione’s ashen face as she hovered her wand over Malfoy’s body, and before he knew it, he was already in St Mungo’s.

They had brought Malfoy to _Spell Damage_ , for fuck’s sake. What could be a more direct way of saying that this was all Harry’s fault?

“Harry.” Someone tapped his shoulder gently, jolting Harry out of his stupor. He looked up from where he was sitting and found Luna’s smile not as comforting as usual. She looked tired, her hair was tied up in a messy bun, some strands hanging loosely around her face and onto her Mediwitch robes. But she could still smile nonetheless—that frustrated Harry no end. “Blaise will be done questioning Hermione in a moment. He’ll find out what’s gone wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong aside from me forcing Malfoy back into his body.” Harry gritted his teeth. “Obviously the spell can’t win out against Voldemort’s curse.”

“Nothing is sure until you know for sure,” said Luna simply. Harry sighed, putting his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He really couldn’t take Luna’s roundabout way of talking now of all times.

“I caused this, Luna. I took away his chance to _live._ ”

Luna hummed. She sat beside him and said, “It’s rather a touching story, the one that Hermione told us inside. It’s even like a love story. Between you and Draco and Ian.”

“And I bloody fucked it up, didn’t I?” snapped Harry, looking up.

“I’m surprised you think so.”

“Don’t be. Because if Malfoy—if he—” Harry choked, unable to continue.

“I thought Draco was the one who decided to unite with his body. You’re not to blame, Harry.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for me. If I’d have just shut up and stopped forcing him . . .”

“Then you’d lose Draco’s magic.”

“It doesn’t seem so different now.”

Luna inclined her head to the side, pursing her lips for a moment. When she smiled again, she squeezed Harry’s hand. “The difference is that Draco is still fighting now. Blaise is a good Healer, he won’t let Draco die.”

Sighing, Harry wanted nothing more than to turn back time. If only there was still a Time Turner . . . but there wasn’t, and Harry could only loathe himself for being the biggest fool ever. He had wasted Mrs Malfoy’s efforts, her life, only to satisfy his own desires. “I’m so fucking selfish. All this time Malfoy and Raines had been trying to get that through my head . . .”

“Harry James Potter,” said Luna in a tone so stern that Harry winced despite himself. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Draco is _fighting_. Haven’t you got anything better to do than blame yourself? Nothing useful at all?”

Harry felt his face burning up, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I know, I shouldn’t give up,” he said finally. The squeeze on his hand told Harry that Luna agreed.

“I should get back to Blaise. He tends to let Wrackspurts befuddle his decision-making. We don’t want him casting the wrong spell on Draco.”

Harry gave her a half smile, not bothering to point out that her statement contradicted her own earlier attempt to calm him. He watched her leave and run his fingers through his hair in frustration. Luna was right, there was a difference between now and then. This time, Malfoy was alive. Harry shouldn't stop trying. But if he failed, if in the end Malfoy still lost to the curse. . .

Then that meant Harry had killed both Malfoy and Raines.

**. .**

**. .**

Dropping what must have been the nineteenth book, Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses. Nothing, even after reading all the books he copied, he still couldn’t find anything remotely close to an answer. Where the hell did Voldemort get the curse from? Even Horcruxes were mentioned in a book—

“Oh God, how could I forget.”

He hastened towards the Floo, skidding to a stop to grab the Floo powder and quickly threw it into the fireplace. He yelled Hermione and Ron’s address before diving into the green flame. Fortunately, Hermione had the habit of doing her research in the living room, so it didn’t take her long to answer.

“Oh Harry, I’m still trying to find something useful. Have you heard any news about Malfoy?” she asked. Her bushy hair was so alarming that Harry was sure she had raked her fingers through it countless times, and he could see the dark circles under her eyes. The last time she had looked like that was during the war—Harry struggled not to think that it was probably bad omen.

“I—I can’t find anything either,” he managed.

“I’ll go over there once I’m done with the ones I have. Just in case,” said Hermione. Harry didn’t even have the energy to be offended by Hermione’s lack of trust in his researching skills.

“Listen, where do you think Voldemort found the curse? Where did Voldemort read about _Horcruxes_? Do you think _Magick Moste Evile_ has any information?”

Hermione shook her head, looking sad. “Do you think I haven’t checked that book? It was the first one I read when we discovered about the curse. I think Voldemort invented it himself, or perhaps he took it from another source.”

Harry swore, rubbing a hand over his face. “God, still no leads.”

“Harry, have you seen Malfoy?”

He stiffened. “I—I can’t see him before I find the counter curse.”

“Harry—”

“I caused this, Hermione!”

“No, Voldemort caused this,” said Hermione, her eyes narrowing. “Malfoy did this to himself.”

“We both know that Malfoy is in St Mungo's because the spell clashed with the curse. I asked you to cast that spell.”

“And I was the one who cast it, and the team in the Ministry invented it. Do you want to list every single person connected to this case?”

Harry looked away, and he heard Hermione sigh in exasperation.

“This isn’t like you. Stop blaming yourself, you’re just being stubborn right now. Go and see him, if you’re lucky he might be awake when you get there.”

Harry waited for the burning in his eyes to subside before he blinked. A tear still escaped despite his efforts, though. He rubbed his cheek with the heel of his palm. “Will you continue the research?” he asked.

“Yes, Harry. I’ll gather my books and go over there. You can go to St Mungo’s now.”

Nodding, he mumbled his thanks to Hermione and pulled away from the Floo. He sat on his heels for a moment longer, trying to reassure himself that everything would be fine, that he should stop being a prat like what Hermione and Luna told him. It was difficult when you knew that everything happened because of you, though. It was Sirius all over again, and Harry tried to block out all the voices in his head, the ones that screamed at him and cursed him for being an idiot.

Taking a deep breath, Harry stood up and grabbed another handful of Floo powder. “St Mungo’s,” he said before stepping into the flame.

St Mungo’s didn’t look the same. The reception area was surrounded by Aurors, and vaguely Harry could hear people shouting at the front door. Reporters. The fact that the last ex-Death Eater had been admitted to St Mungo’s had spread, there could be no other reason. Only Malfoy could cause this many Aurors to come, even if none of them could give a rat’s arse about Malfoy himself.

Ignoring the curious gazes from his workmates, Harry walked past them, raising his chin in defiance. He saw Neville watching him from the corner of his eye. Harry nodded a little, before he headed to the fourth floor. As expected, there were three Aurors guarding Malfoy’s room. Harry resisted the urge to massage his temples.

“Potter, what are you doing?” asked Proudfoot. “You’re under suspension, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t come here,” snapped Harry. “Move.”

Proudfoot seemed to be at a loss. “Wha—no, you can’t, this is Draco Malfoy’s room, no one can enter!”

“I can and I will,” said Harry. He started towards the door, but was immediately yanked back.

“Potter, you’re not on this case any longer. You can’t do this,” said Dawlish urgently in his ear. “Don’t give Robards any more reasons to sack you!”

“He’s right, mate. What do you want to do inside anyway?” asked Savage, his palm sweaty against the skin of Harry’s arm. It was only then that Harry realised he hadn’t remembered to wear his coat or even robes over his t-shirt.

“I brought him here. I have the right to visit him because I was the one who brought him here,” said Harry.

“You did?” Proudfoot gasped. “Why didn’t you file a report?”

“Because he’s ill,” hissed Harry. “Can’t you see he’s ill?”

“The Healer and Mediwitch in charge have been very tight-lipped, said something about patient confidentiality. I didn’t even understand what that Mediwitch was talking about, actually, she seemed to be from another world.” Dawlish sighed. “Can you fill us in, then?”

“Not right now, I can’t be bothered with Auror work, I’m suspended, remember?”

“Potter, you know that we could—”

Someone opened the door from inside Malfoy’s room all of a sudden, cutting off Proudfoot mid-sentence. “Ah, I was wondering who was making a ruckus out here,” said the man in Healer robes, before Harry remembered it was Blaise Zabini. “Potter, come on in, I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”

“Wait a minute, Healer Zabini, we need information on Draco Malfoy,” protested Savage.

“Patient’s health comes first.” Zabini waved him off, his tone was sweet but there was something in it that clearly belied a threat. “This is what I hate about Aurors, they can’t think of anything aside from their own cases. You lot do realise that there’s something more important like, I don’t know, someone’s life?”

Savage opened his mouth but no word came forth. His face grew red from anger. Harry had seen it countless times in the field, so he knew Savage would be tongue-tied for a while now. Dawlish stepped in, though. “We’re just trying to help, his safety is our priority, too.”

“Then let me do my job,” Zabini said simply. “Potter, follow me.” He turned on his heels and Harry briskly did as he was told, eager to get away. Upon closing the door behind him, he could hear Proudfoot and Dawlish talking heatedly outside.

“I thought you’d never come,” said Zabini when Harry didn’t move from behind the door. Zabini waved his hand towards the bed. “Malfoy woke up this morning, he asked about you.”

“He did?” Harry asked, surprised. He slowly made his way towards the bed, holding his breath at the sight of Malfoy sleeping in his white hospital gown, his skin so pale Harry thought he was back to being a ghost again. Aside from that, however, he didn’t look so different from the last time Harry saw him laugh. He wasn’t sweating or panting, but Harry knew it didn’t mean he was all right. “How—how is he?”

“His magic fluctuated rapidly when he was awake that his body couldn’t stand it, so we had to sedate him. But yes, he asked about you, and the only thing I wanted to do was smack some sense into his head.”

Harry lifted a finger to stroke Malfoy’s cheek, but he couldn’t bear it if it turned out the skin was cold. He paused and clutched the lime green sheet instead. “What did—what did he say?”

“’How is Potter?’ as if he knew that you must be wallowing in self pity right now.”

“I _don’t_ wallow,” said Harry, embarrassed. He frowned once he noticed Zabini smirking at him. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s been ages since I saw Malfoy, never thought he’d be one of my patients. Never thought you’d be so close to him.”

Harry looked away. “Yeah, well, he couldn’t meet anyone even if he wanted to before this.”

“Indeed. But Potter, don’t get me wrong,” began Zabini, forcing Harry to regard him again, “I still think of him as a friend. So you know, I’m really cross with you right now.”

Harry swallowed. “I know. I’ll do my best to help him.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Zabini sneered. “Helping him is my job, your job is to stay out of trouble because Malfoy wouldn’t like that.”

Harry held back the impulse to lash out at Zabini, because really, he needed Zabini to save Malfoy. So he clenched his fists and turned towards Malfoy, studying the messy way his hair framed his face.

“Well then, I need to check on my other patients for a bit. When you’re done staring at him, you might want to leave using that back door.” Zabini pointed in the direction of a narrow door, which was half hidden behind a shelf of potions. “And it’s safer to use the Floo on the third floor. Not many people use that one. Unless you like to be the centre of attention, O Chosen One.”

Harry gritted his teeth, though he still could mutter, “Thank you,” as Zabini trudged towards the back door. If Zabini had heard it, he chose to ignore Harry and went out of the room in a swirl of green robes flapping behind him.

Harry sighed.

“I wonder if you’ll ever forgive me for fucking up everything,” he whispered, focusing on the sleeping Malfoy again. Now that Zabini had gone, Harry could hear the faint _beep, beep_ sounds from the medical tracking spell echoing in the room. Everything felt a whole lot worse, because it made him aware that Malfoy was not okay. “Looks like I’m the master of creating disasters. I bet you’ll laugh your arse off.”

His eyes strayed towards Malfoy’s left arm, the Dark Mark partially visible under his sleeve. The hatred was back in full force, and if he could kill Voldemort again, he would happily do so—again and again and again, until he couldn’t feel anything. But even back then Harry didn’t really kill him, and now he was as helpeless as before, relying only on blind hope that the curse wouldn’t activate any time soon.

“You’re my responsibility,” said Harry, now watching the way Malfoy’s lips parted slightly. He traced them, revelling at how Malfoy’s breaths softly caressed his fingers. They were warm, to Harry’s relief. “I’ll save you even if . . .”

He shook his head. Clutching the edge of the bed, Harry leaned in and pressed his lips against Malfoy’s. He half-expected the lips under his to move, to smile into the kiss and prove that it was all only a bad dream, but of course that wouldn’t happen. So Harry straightened his body, before taking one last look at Malfoy’s face and leaving.

There was something he could do to pay for his mistake.

**. .**

**. .**

It was surprisingly pretty easy to prepare everything. The potion supplier in Knockturn Alley, where he bought his headache potions months ago, helped him brew the potion he needed without asking any question. Harry suspected it was because she was used to having customers like Harry, asking for quasi-legal potions. The only thing he needed to do now was memorise the incantation, then sneak into Malfoy’s ward.

Avoiding Hermione, who had been constantly watching him lately, was more difficult. She tended to follow him around, even if she had to bring her books everywhere. Often, Harry caught her looking like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. It nearly drove him nuts. Sometimes she would ask Ron to accompany Harry, and that was the moment Harry had been waiting for. It was much easier to escape from Ron.

On the third day after he had the potion ready, Harry got the chance to go to St Mungo’s unnoticed. He used his Invisibility Cloak and emerged from the third floor’s Floo. Just as Zabini told him, no one really used this Floo, hence Harry breathed in relief. He shuffled along the corridors and up the stairs, carefully dodging the people guarding Malfoy’s room.

This time he didn’t see Dawlish and Proudfoot—only Savage and two Trainee Aurors were there. Harry tried to ignore the tone the two Trainees used when they talked about Malfoy, reminding himself that there were more important things to do than hex gossiping women. Sneaking a glance towards them and Savage, Harry spelled the back door to Malfoy’s room so it wouldn’t creak, and slipped inside. He smiled triumphantly once he got the door closed again behind his back.

Allowing his Invisibility Cloak to slither down his shoulders, Harry strode towards the bed. Malfoy was sleeping, the steady rhythm of the tracking medical spell in tune with the fall and rise of his chest. Harry observed him further, taking in the fact that Malfoy really did seem to sleep peacefully. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry scooped out the potion vial from his robe pocket and uncorked it.

“This is going to be the last time,” he said so softly he almost didn’t hear it himself. Holding the vial so tightly his fingers started to shake, Harry took a deep breath and brought the vial to his lips. He tipped it back, tasting the bitter concoction as he held it in his mouth. Looking down, he touched Malfoy’s cheeks, his fingers giving just the right amount of pressure so Malfoy’s lips parted slightly. He bent down and claimed those lips with his.

Letting the potion pour into Malfoy’s mouth, Harry’s heart fluttered against his chest. He didn’t know, however, if it was because he was scared, or if it was because he was kissing Malfoy. He kept moving his lips even after he had transferred all the liquid, just so he could savour the taste of Malfoy. It didn’t matter that the bitter waft of various potions seemed to surround Malfoy—he still had that lingering scent that was so him, and Harry breathed in deeply. He wished time could just stop.

When he forced himself to let go and open his eyes, he found Malfoy watching him.

“Mal . . . “

“Potter.”

“You’re awake . . .”

“What did you feed me?” asked Malfoy, his expression turning grimmer by the second. “What did you give me, Potter?”

“Nothing,” Harry quickly said. “Trust me.”

“I remember the taste. I remember when I last drank that potion.”

“Malfoy—”

“Why?” Malfoy looked ashen and his lips trembled. “I thought—I _told_ you that this was what worried me, what you’d do if something happened. I trusted you and so I did what I did. But why—Harry, you’ll betray my trust if you carry on with this.”

“I’m not betraying anyone,” said Harry. He stood up, taking a few steps back and waiting, waiting until the potions kicked in. He hadn’t betrayed anyone and he would never betray Malfoy. But if he didn’t do this, he would betray Narcissa Malfoy’s love, her death for her beloved son’s life. But the way Malfoy looked at him, his eyebrows scrunched and lips pinched—it was as though his whole body was screaming at Harry’s betrayal. Harry shook his head. “Trust me, I’ll save you.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, he just kept staring and staring and it was only then that Harry realised the potion had taken effect. Just a split second before Malfoy closed his eyes, the lines on his face smoothed and relaxed, Harry saw a tear sliding down Malfoy’s cheek.

“I’ll save you,” he repeated, more to himself. Gripping his wand, Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember all the steps he had memorised. Malfoy’s betrayed expression made it harder, but Harry was familiar with this feeling. It was as if he was back to that time, when he had to leave Ron, Hermione and Ginny, walking alone into the Forbidden Forest with only one thing in his mind. He had been ready to die—and he was now, too.

The incantation was long and difficult to pronounce, despite having practised it countless times before. Yet it seemed to be working well as Harry drew a pattern in the air, his lips continuing to murmur the incantation. Yellow lines tangled with each other, enveloping Malfoy from the tips of his hair to his toes under the duvet. They glittered like spider webs, the lights reflected on Malfoy’s skin.

The second incantation was much shorter, but Harry had to repeat it again and again while forming a never ending pattern with his wand. The loops would have to be continuous, and that the slightest hesitation in Harry’s movement or his voice could ruin the whole process. Harry’s heart hammered so loudly, sweat trickled its way down his temple, and Harry resisted the urge to wipe it. When finally a red glow joined the yellow webs over Malfoy’s body, Harry breathed in relief, his legs staggering a little from nervousness. The third step was now complete—two more to go.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he whispered, pointing his wand to Malfoy’s temple. He was about to continue the words he had learnt by rote from the torn page of Mrs Malfoy’s diary, but paused. In the end he changed them to, “You will keep your memories as a wizard and you will lose your magic in exchange for . . .” He took a deep breath, studying the calm expression Malfoy was wearing, his hair, his pointy nose, his high cheekbones, and feeling his chest burst with emotions. “. . . in exchange for Harry James Potter’s life.”

A bright green light shot out from the tip of Harry’s wand and cocooned Malfoy completely. The room was covered in green, even the yellow lines and red glow from the earlier spells were gone. Harry blinked his tears away, taking a step back. This was the time.

Raising his wand, he levelled it towards his own chest and closed his eyes. Malfoy would remember, but he would understand why Harry had done this. This way Malfoy wouldn’t have to be a stranger, he could live as Draco Malfoy, despite having no magic. Hermione would help him, and maybe Ron, too. He wouldn’t have to hide, the Aurors wouldn’t have to track him down if he no longer suffered the curse. Everything would be all right. Everything would be fine even if Harry wouldn’t be there. But Malfoy would understand—Hermione, Ron, Ginny . . . they all would. So Harry pressed the tip of his wand against his chest further, bracing himself to say the spell he never thought he would cast.

“ _Avada Keda—_ ”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Snapping his eyes open, the only thing he saw was his wand whipping away into the air, the bright green light in the room fading so quickly as though his wand had absorbed it all. The next moment, he saw Hermione standing near the back door, her wand pointed at Harry. Behind her were Ron, Zabini and Luna, all looking at him in alarm. The clatter of his wand on the floor seemed to be the thing that jerked them all into action.

“Harry!” Hermione rushed towards him. “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” She threw herself at him, crushing him into a tight hug. “Thank God we could still stop you!”

Still having difficulties catching up, Harry wobbled backwards. Ron caught his shoulders. “You almost gave us a heart attack! Seriously, mate, what were you thinking?” he asked, the grip on Harry's shoulders hurting so much it might bruise. “Hermione almost killed me when she found out you were missing!” From over Hermione’s shoulder, Harry saw Zabini and Luna frantically moving their wands all over Malfoy, all the green, yellow and red lights having vanished entirely.

“Mal . . .” Harry tried to speak, but there was a lump in his throat and suddenly his chest felt so heavy he could hardly breathe.

He failed—he hadn’t saved Malfoy.

“You listen to me, Harry Potter.” Hermione cupped his jaw and forced him to look at her. “You’re not doing this again. Never. You understand?”

“Hermi—no, I need to—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t even know what the real problem is with Malfoy’s magic!”

Harry worked his jaw, trying to counter her, but upon catching Zabini’s eyes, he paused. “The real problem?”

“Gryffindor foolishness never fails to amaze me,” said Zabini, shaking his head. Upon Harry’s lack of answer, he rolled his eyes. “There was a reason why Ms Lovegood and I had to keep Malfoy on close watch. His magic reaction was so extraordinary, it was as if it had its own mind. Therefore with Ms Granger’s help, finally we got the results.” He brandished his wand and wrote in the air. Orange lines emerged, forming a string of letters.

“See, it appears that there are four things that are affecting Malfoy’s condition,” he explained. “First, his own magic, which is still unstable, thanks to having been free so long. It’s been attempting to escape from the confinement of a body. Second, Malfoy’s body, which isn’t used to magic yet, is trying to dispel the foreign object—which is, of course, the magic. Third, the curse—though it is still in hibernation, its existence is strong enough to add to the problem. Fourth, Granger’s spell, which is struggling to stabilise the three factors above, but not strong enough. Those four are clashing with each other, and that’s why Malfoy is so weak.”

Harry tried to process the whole thing. “So it’s not because the curse is killing him?”

“Not yet,” said Zabini, erasing the orange lines. “Right now we need to focus on stabilising his magic and get his body used to magic again.”

Harry shook his head in distress. “But what if the curse activates? If I’d succeeded with the ritual, every problem would be solved, wouldn’t it?”

“It would indeed. But that’s where Granger comes in,” said Zabini. “It turns out, she might be able to solve all those problems without having you dead in the process.”

Harry jerked his face towards Hermione in shock. “What?”

She cleared her throat, her cheeks growing pink. “Harry, the spell, it’s trying to stabilise the curse, but that’s not the only thing it’s doing. It’s also tying up the curse, putting it into quarantine so it won’t spread to the other parts of the body, or be triggered by other factors to activate. Basically, the spell works the same way as the Muggles’ antivirus. For their computers.”

Harry stared, not quite understanding what she was saying.

“The curse is a form of magic. So is the spell. And Mrs Malfoy’s ritual made me think . . . what if we only remove a part of the magic from Malfoy’s body? The part that the spell confines, in other words, the curse, so it won’t affect Malfoy’s own magic? I’d been researching, using Mrs Malfoy’s ritual and the spell as the base, but of course, I’m against using a human sacrifice,” she said, pointedly. When Harry only frowned in response, she sighed. “So Harry, I talked with Zabini. He’s an expert in modifying spells and charms—”

“Healing spells and charms, actually,” said Zabini.

“—and he helped me to modify the ritual, because fortunately, the ritual was invented to save. Some of the spells used were taken from old healing spells,” finished Hermione.

“You’re telling me we really can cure Malfoy?”

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry suddenly felt his legs would give way in relief, and it was only because Ron was holding him that Harry could still stand. “Why—why didn’t you tell me anything?”

“Because I wasn’t sure it’d work! I was just worried you’d do stupid things like this the whole time!”

“Clearly I wouldn’t if you’d told me that,” retorted Harry.

“Maybe you should start by telling us what’s on your mind, too, mate,” said Ron.

“How could I? When I knew you’d object?”

“O—kay, this is a hospital, you barbarian Gryffindors,” said Zabini loudly. “We have a patient here.”

Hermione looked sheepish, while Ron scowled, letting Harry go to stand beside her. But Harry froze when he saw Malfoy staring at him. Luna was by Malfoy’s side, smiling gently and helping him get to a sitting position. Harry felt his mouth dry up the moment Malfoy sneered, “So, not dead then, Potter?”

“Malfoy—”

“I heard the whole thing. The potion didn’t make me fully unconscious—looks like the brewer wasn’t up to my mother’s standard.”

Harry winced. “Malfoy, I—”

“Lovegood, give me your wand,” said Malfoy, extending his hand. Luna, looking happy and dreamy, gave him her wand without protest.

“Malfoy, wait, can we talk—”

A Stinging Hex burned on Harry’s arm, causing him to hiss and nearly bite his tongue. Several more hexes tore at various parts of his body, until Harry had to drop to his knees. “Fuck, Malfoy!”

“Fuck you, Potter. I told you not to do that.”

“I told you I don’t follow orders!”

More Stinging Hexes flared on Harry’s skin, even as he tried to dodge them. Harry wondered where Malfoy had learnt to fire hexes that fast, or if it was only because he was furious at Harry.

“Stop now, Malfoy. Healer’s order, your magic is not ready to be used that way, and you will do as you’re told.” Zabini stepped in, easily capturing Malfoy’s wrist.

“Fuck you, too, Zabini, release me.”

“I’ll have none of that. You’re still too weak anyway.” Zabini twisted Malfoy’s wrist a bit, and the wand dropped onto the duvet. “There, there. Potter has received his punishment. Not even his friends stopped your hexes.”

Harry eyed Ron and Hermione, who only shrugged lightly. “You deserve it, as much as I hate the ferret, mate,” said Ron.

Sighing, Harry stood up resignedly. He walked over to the bed, trying not to flinch under Malfoy’s glare. “I’m sorry.”

“How many times must I deal with your selfishness, Potter?”

“I’m really sorry. I just don’t want you to . . . well, you know the only thing that I want.”

“Yes, all of your selfishness these past months revolved solely around me and my death, I know that already.” 

“I’m sorry . . .”

“Whatever, what’s done is done,” snapped Malfoy. He looked around the room and narrowed his eyes. “I’d prefer if you all could leave us alone.”

There was a collective sigh from Zabini, Ron and Hermione. Only Luna smiled in agreement after taking back her wand. “What a romantic love story,” she said as she left, humming under her breath. Seemingly used to Luna’s antics, Zabini ignored her. He swished his wand over Malfoy and watched the numbers forming in the air with a bored expression.

“Five minutes. Your magic’s level is too high right now.”

“Fine, just don’t eavesdrop,” said Malfoy.

“Even if I wanted to, Granger’s charm is too strong for me to dissolve,” said Zabini, flashing a grin, which instantly faded at Harry’s look. “Why do you think the Aurors didn’t barge in, hearing all the noise? A beauty of a Silencing Charm, that.”

“Seriously, go away, Zabini,” said Malfoy, sounding tired.

“Five minutes then.” Zabini nodded, guiding Hermione and Ron towards the back door. Once they were all out of the room, Malfoy was back to glaring at Harry.

“Malfoy—”

“Don’t you dare doing anything like that again, Potter,” said Malfoy tightly.

“Why? I only wanted to save you!”

“Then how do you think I’d feel, hearing those words coming out of your mouth, and imagining the same words must have come out of my _mother_ ’s mouth?”

Harry felt as if his heart had just dropped into his stomach. “Oh, God. I didn’t realise . . .”

“Yes, you never realise anything! How do you think I’d feel, knowing both you and my mother did that for me? How useless I am for having to be saved, for having to _kill_ you in order to live?”

Harry couldn’t say anything. He could only watch Malfoy blinking his eyes repeatedly, clearly trying to hold back angry tears. His hands clutched the duvet tightly, shaking and pale.

“Promise me,” said Malfoy, his voice broken yet insistent. “Promise me not to throw away your life for me again.”

Harry wanted to hug him, wanted to calm him, but how could he, when he was the cause of Malfoy’s anguish?

“Potter!”

“I—I don’t regret doing it. But I promise, I’ll respect your feelings next time.”

“Pot—”

“You saved me in the old building, you almost disappeared.”

“It was only my ma—”

“You refused to identify me in the Manor.”

“It doesn’t mean I was ready to die for you!”

“It’s the same, Malfoy,” said Harry, touching Malfoy’s cheek. “But I promise. Promise.”

Surely by now Malfoy must have known that Harry didn’t really keep all of his promises. Yet Malfoy still nodded after a long silence. Inside, Harry knew that it was because Malfoy wouldn’t keep his promise either, if it was about saving Harry.

So they stayed silent, pretending for now it was enough.

**. .**

**. .**

It was dark in Grimmauld Place. Harry hadn’t bothered to light the lamps or torches, and Kreacher seemed to understand his mood—or he just didn’t bother to do the thing Harry was too lazy to do. Harry sat on the floor, leaning against the kitchen wall. The light from the street lamps outside permeated through the window, creating lines of gloomy yellow on the floor. He absently fiddled with Narcissa Malfoy’s romance novel, shuffling the pages back and forth, back and forth.

He didn’t know when exactly, but at some point past midnight, Hermione sauntered into the kitchen and sat beside him. Not so long after, Ron followed. They squished Harry, sitting together in the dark with Hermione’s head on Harry’s shoulder and Ron’s back on Harry’s other shoulder. It reminded him of those times before they all became busy with life sans Voldemort.

“What’s the book about?” asked Hermione sometime before sunrise. She traced a finger over the cover when Harry had given up fiddling with it.

“Romance. Love story. Something stupid but sweet,” Harry answered.

Ron snorted but didn’t say anything.

“Have you read it?” asked Hermione again.

“Mm. I thought I could find a way to save Malfoy in this book, but . . . no. It’s unlike her, though. To put something like this together with the other clues in the box.”

“But you don’t really know her, mate,” said Ron, nudging Harry’s waist with his elbow. “What’s the story? I like making fun of bodice-rippers.”

“Ronald, that’s so tactless of you. Romance is a form of art,” Hermione scolded him.

“Yeah, for girls,” said Ron simply. Harry couldn’t help but grin a little.

“It’s like the Muggles’ Romeo and Juliet. Only in the end both characters survive. The girl stopped the boy before he killed himself, and they lived happily ever after.”

“Oh,” said Hermione when Ron asked who Romeo and Juliet were. She didn’t say anything for a long time, until Harry thought perhaps she had fallen asleep, just like Ron who had given up waiting for her answer. But finally she spoke again, her hand squeezing Harry’s gently. “Do you think . . . the fact that Malfoy’s magic wasn’t completely gone was deliberate?”

Harry took a moment to mull it over. Mrs Malfoy might have made a mistake when she marked the map, but he didn’t think she would make another mistake in performing the ritual. Even Harry almost succeeded. “Perhaps . . . she still hoped someone would be able to help her son. Perhaps it was all planned out.”

“Perhaps she still believed in miracles,” Hermione agreed. “Perhaps hopes are the ones we should never lose.”

Harry looked down at the book under Hermione’s fingers, the early morning sun making it easy to read the title, _Achille and Edmée_. Perhaps love was indeed the greatest force—just like Harry’s own mother. Just like Snape. Just like . . .

“Harry?”

“I . . . I should have understood more than anyone, how it feels to have your own mother killed in order to save you. But I didn’t think I’d make him remember. He . . . he was much closer to his mother.”

“Oh, Harry . . .”

“I didn’t think . . .”

Hermione squeezed his hand again, firmer this time. “You were only trying, Harry. That’s all.”

Harry didn’t have anything to say to that. He gazed at the window, feeling the warmth of the morning sun starting to shower his face, his body. Hermione was right, he was trying. Malfoy was trying. To save and to care for someone. It was different from that time in the Forbidden Forest. He didn’t feel the helplessness—didn’t feel as though he didn’t have any choice but to die with the Horcrux inside him. For the first time, Harry understood why Snape had sacrificed everything for the love that couldn’t give him anything in return.

Glancing back at the romance novel on the floor, Harry knew he owed more than his life to Narcissa Malfoy.

. .

. .

“Honestly, Potter, if you’re that slow I’ll just go by myself!”

Putting down the _Daily Prophet_ , Harry rolled his eyes. There was the familiar crack of an Apparition, and he grumbled under his breath. Of course Malfoy wouldn’t wait for him, that git. But . . . he sipped his coffee, trying to contain the happy grin that threatened to form on his lips. He shifted his attention to the _Daily Prophet_ again.

The front page showed Hermione shaking hands with Kingsley, Zabini and Luna at her side. The article specified that Hermione and Zabini’s achievement in nullifying Voldemort’s curse had given them the opportunity to advance another similar branch of medical research. And of course Luna would help them. Harry tried to think about what that meant, and suddenly had a bad premonition.

Maybe . . . maybe that meant Hermione would leave her post at the Ministry to pursue a career that could help more people. Harry could still hear her voice, when she told him that she only managed to succeed because the two month span of the spell’s effectiveness hadn’t run out. Hence, there were still a lot of holes she needed to cover, and she would do everything in her power to prevent the same thing from happening in future. Harry grimaced, knowing that he was going to be listening to a lot more of Ron's sulks. Surely her research would take almost all of her time now. Bad premonition indeed.

Sighing, Harry eyed the two letters he had put beside his empty plate. The first one was an official letter from Robards—he had finally released Harry from suspension. Harry didn’t know if he really was suitable as an Auror, and he didn’t know what to feel, reading Robards’ letter. But again, it was too soon to give up—he had his second chance, perhaps he shouldn’t waste it. As for the other letter . . . well, maybe it was indeed time to fulfil his promise and tell Ginny everything. Harry should have known that she wouldn’t be satisfied just knowing the simplified story from newspapers and Ron.

Shaking his head a little to collect himself, Harry stood up and took his coat from the hanger. Vaguely he wondered if Malfoy had remembered to change his robes into a Muggle coat, but he dismissed the thought. It would be Malfoy’s own fault for being so impatient if the Muggles gave him funny looks. So Harry slipped on his coat and Apparated to Callington with a smile.

Snow had started to pile up on the street. Harry grinned when he saw a pair of footprints starting from the point he materialised, towards the orphanage. He followed the footprints, stepping on them one by one just like a kid. At the orphanage gate, he spotted Malfoy standing, his hands inside his grey coat pockets. Turned out he remembered to change clothes after all.

“Why not go inside?” Harry asked as he arrived at Malfoy’s side.

“I don’t know what to say,” admitted Malfoy, staring at the closed front door and looking forlorn. Harry choked a laugh.

“Just go and say thanks. Tell them you got your memory back and that you’re going to be all right in London.” He reached up to Malfoy’s hair and messed it up. Malfoy yelped and jerked backward.

“What are you doing?”

“Raines wouldn’t look this immaculate. Just—let some loose, will you? Just so they’ll know it’s you.” Harry teased.

“Oh, shut it, Potter. They’ll know it’s me.” Malfoy tried to comb his hair back with his gloved fingers, but in the end he let some strands loosely fall around his face. He remained motionless and silent, before finally letting out a long sigh. “Let’s cancel this.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s Raines’ place—I don’t think I should throw myself into his . . . whatever it is for him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I want to keep him alive in my mind, he’s a person. He was—I don’t know, he was really strong, considering what he went through,” said Malfoy quietly. “His memories made me see things differently.”

Harry studied him. Malfoy looked anxious, nervous. The tip of his nose was red from cold, and Harry knew that meant Malfoy was feeling really, really insecure. Malfoy never forgot to cast the Warming Charm unless he was distracted.

“Okay,” said Harry. “Why don’t we go to Raines’ flat and . . . take that photograph? It’d be a nice memory for you.”

Malfoy nodded. “Yeah. And I’ll just send a letter to Old Man William. And Leah. Just so they know I’m not dead from starvation somewhere.”

“That’s a good plan.”

Malfoy stared some more at the orphanage, as though he wanted to burn every little detail into his mind. Harry wanted to suggest filing the memories for use in the Pensieve, but he held his tongue. Perhaps Malfoy just wanted to savour everything from his Muggle point of view. Or perhaps he simply wanted to be Raines right now. Harry didn’t know, but sometimes he wasn’t certain whether he was talking to Malfoy or Raines. Then again, now Harry thought it didn’t matter. He got this Malfoy, the one who was both the anguished boy from the war and the apathetic Muggle without a past. The one who shot him Stinging Hexes and asked him to make promises. So that was enough.

“Let’s go,” Malfoy said at last. He turned around, pushing the small of Harry’s back. “We’ll go to the flat and get back to—” He paused, his shoulders stiffened. Harry turned back to see what had made Malfoy freeze.

“Monica,” said Harry, seeing the way Monica clung onto the back of Malfoy’s thigh. “Hey, where did you come from? We didn’t see you.”

She didn’t answer him, instead focusing her attention on Malfoy, who was now slowly turning to acknowledge her presence.

“Monica,” said Malfoy so softly. He sat back on his heels, taking her tiny hands in his own. “It’s cold, where are your gloves?” 

Monica shook her head. “Gone,” she said. Harry had to strain his ears, but it was worth it, for it was the first time he ever heard her speak.

“Where’s Leah? And the others? Why are you alone?” asked Malfoy again. He started blowing Monica’s hands, rubbing the fingers for warmth.

Monica only shook her head again in response. She struggled to free her hands and flung her arms around Malfoy’s neck. The expression on Malfoy’s face as he didn’t know whether he should hug her back or not, was such that Harry couldn’t contain his laughter.

“You lost,” said Harry. “Let’s get her back inside. And maybe we can come again for a visit on Christmas. And the one after that, and the one after that one, too.”

Malfoy stared with confusion writ large upon his features. Harry waited for a beat and another, until Malfoy sighed and a small smile formed at the corner of his mouth. “I lost, indeed,” he drawled, deciding to hug Monica back after all. He settled her on his hip before standing up. “Come on, then. It’s your nap time if I remember correctly.”

Harry followed him striding past the gate and along the garden path, smiling all the while. As they arrived in front of the door, they paused. Malfoy glanced at Harry and Monica mirrored him. Harry raised his eyebrows in askance.

“Potter—Harry,” began Malfoy, “it’s—um . . .”

Harry smiled wider, patting Malfoy’s shoulder. “It’s fine. I won’t lose control again even if you act like Raines.”

Malfoy seemed to visibly relax. He put Monica down and told her to call Leah and the others. “We’ll be in the living room shortly,” he said. Monica nodded, turning the doorknob and running inside. Before Harry could follow her, though, Malfoy yanked his arm and kept the door half-closed.

“Just for this I’ll give you a reward,” Malfoy said.

“A reward? Like the one I got for moaning that time?”

“I’ll think about it.” Malfoy pulled at Harry’s lapels and kissed him. “Mm, yes, I think that’s a rather nice idea. Tonight?”

Harry laughed. “You could have just said thanks, you know. Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’d better not be,” said Malfoy before kissing Harry again, this time deeper and making Harry’s trousers feel tight in all the right ways. When Malfoy pulled back, he gave Harry a knowing smirk.

“Shut up, you git. You caused it,” said Harry.

“Prat,” said Malfoy.

“Tosser.”

“Wanker.”

“Hate you.”

“Hate you, too.”

Malfoy tugged Harry inside with a silly grin plastered on his face. Harry followed him, feeling his chest warm with affection. And when he found Monica peeking from behind a wall and heard Malfoy scold her, Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

Harry had learnt so many things in life, and even more things in the last year. So later that night, while Malfoy tried hard to prove that Malfoys didn't make obscene noises, Harry secretly concluded . . . that love and hope really could win against time.

For once he enjoyed the sound of the ticking clock in his bedroom.

**. .**

**Fin**

**. .**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/69144.html).


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